


My Body is Your Vessel

by am1thirteen



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Dark, Gen, Ghosts, M/M, Possession, Post Reichenbach, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2013-07-03
Packaged: 2017-12-08 04:58:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 41,212
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/757318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/am1thirteen/pseuds/am1thirteen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Inspired by this prompt: Sherlock didn't fake his death. He is actually dead. And John doesn't know what to do with himself. He is, therefore, happy and relieved once Sherlock starts possessing him. Bonus for John smoking, preserving experiments and starting new ones, wearing suits, forgetting to sleep and eat. Just Sherlock all over. Double bonus for physical changes. All the bonuses if it isn't that Sherlock erases John but that they become a single entity that terrifies everyone. </p><p>This isn't really the above prompt's fill, I kind of took the idea from there and spun it in to something darker and more sinister.<br/>COMPLETE.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hour of the Rooster

Last time Greg took John out for a pint, John acted like he had something he'd like to say, but eventually refrained himself from doing so. Now, standing in the middle of 221b sitting room, smelling the smoke that is billowing from John's lit cigarette, he suddenly wishes he had pushed a little harder for it.

 

"John, you are a doctor. Don't do this."

 

Leave it to John Watson to make the addiction he spends most of his adult life fighting look like a chore. It is painful to see him wince after every slapdash inhalation.

 

"I know, I know," John tries to laugh, and fails miserably, "I just... This is Sherlock's first death anniversary." He closes his eyes, lips pressed together tightly. "Sorry. I just can't believe it has been that long."

 

"Yeah, I bet you are," Greg tells him blithely, "You could have just lit the cigarette without taking it yourself, you know. If you want to... remember him or something. Just, make sure to keep an eye on it not to cause a fire hazard."

 

"Yes, obviously." John exhales the last of the smoke before putting it away. "Sorry for making you come here, it's closer from the clinic."

 

That was a lie. Greg has been keeping in touch with Mrs. Hudson and apparently even though John is no longer living there and has gone through great lengths to avoid the place in the past, these last few weeks he has been coming to visit the empty flat almost everyday (except for one weekend when he either left very late at night and came back very early in the morning or has actually stayed the night). Perhaps it's the anniversary, perhaps he is uncomfortable in his current place, nobody knows for sure and no one has the heart to bring it up.

 

"Let's go now. Do you need a hand with the flowers? Nevermind, obviously you can handle it. I'll go get the taxi."

 

Next time Greg takes John out for a pint, his breath smells like cigarettes.

 

XXX

 

The day John moves back in to 221b, Greg stares with wide eyes as he hugs and showers Mrs. Hudson with kisses at the doorstep.

 

XXX

 

"Oh, hello, John. Did you lose some weight?"

 

Greg overhears Dimmock's casual remark as he passes by the hallway, eyes glued on the report for the first budget meeting since he was reinstated. In the distance he can hear John's disappointed murmur as Dimmock informs him that Greg is currently unavailable. He makes a mental note to send John a text later, then a closed-room double murder occurs and it completely slips his mind.

 

XXX

 

"What the bloody fuck!"

 

Greg almost drops his coffee when John peers inside his office with bloodshot eyes and much-too-pronounced cheekbones. The doctor must have lost at least one and a half stone, in... how long since he last saw him? It doesn't feel that long, but admittedly, he has been busy.

 

"Hello Greg, nice greeting. Um, anyway, you haven't been home in... two? Three days?" John tentatively enters the room and closes the door, narrowing his eyes at the Inspector's haggard appearance, "Which case are you working on? The robbery-gone-wrong murder or the drunk-teenage-driving hit and run on Victoria St?"

 

Greg stops collecting the haphazardly scattered paperwork on his desk to throw him a significant look. "John, it's supposed to be just 'murder' and 'hit and run'. How do you know so much about it? Did you run your own investigation without me?"

 

John shrugs.

 

"I see," The Inspector leans back on his chair and crosses his arms, "Do I need to arrange another drug bust to retrieve some evidence from your flat?"

 

"Jesus, no." John says quickly, tensing, "I am not using. Not once in my life. Where did you get the idea anyway?"

 

"I don't know, John, you seem to be emulating Sherlock a lot lately. First you took up smoking, then you moved back to 221b and now this? How much weight did you lose? You look like a bloody stick!" Greg snaps, "I would have thought that you, of all people, would know how destructive his lifestyle was."

 

"I'm not---" John closes his eyes for a moment, gripping the edge of the chair tightly, willing his voice to quiet down, "--not trying to emulate him." He manages, albeit painstakingly.

 

"Then what is it all about, mate?" Greg's expression softens. He couldn't help feeling a little sorry for the man; couldn't help feeling he is at least partly responsible for the things that have happened to the man's best friend. His friend. "You can tell me anything."

 

John gives the inspector a considering look before laughing bitterly to himself. "I don't know how to convince you, Greg. I don't even know how to convince me."

 

"Try me."

 

John gives him one last earnest look before moving away, "I need some time."

 

XXX

 

Time is the last thing Greg wants to give John. Especially not after seeing the glimpse of brittle, bony wrist instead of the usual strong, capable hand. Few people are meant to be Sherlock-skinny, John is simply not built that way.

 

"Morning, ma'am. I'm sorry to have bothered you so early. John is out at work at the moment, yeah?" Greg flashes his most brilliant smile. Mrs. Hudson ushers him in and serves him tea.

 

"Oh dear, I think I know what you're trying to tell me," Mrs. Hudson sighs as she sits down and covers her mouth with her palm, "Before you ask, yes, I have noticed his erratic behaviour as of late."

 

"Like Sherlock," Greg says, affirmed by a curt nod by the landlady.

 

"He doesn't bring human body parts home and store it in the freezer, not yet anyway," Mrs. Hudson wheezes out a distressed chuckle, "But lately he has been spending most of his time with Sherlock's old chemistry set. I intended to donate it to a school, you see. Sherlock's brother told me to keep it. I've been waiting for him to pick it up but he never does."

 

"What about his eating habit? Seems like he has lost an awful lot of weight," Greg inquires, willing himself not to cringe, "I suppose you don't know if he has been sleeping too?"

 

"I'd like to help, dear, I really do, but I rarely see him eat at home. I usually assume that he has been taking his meals outside, but..." Another sigh. "I don't know what to think. It has been two years and he hasn't been able to move on. I thought he was getting better."

 

John did get better, if only for a few months. There was this girl Mary, whom he seemed to adore. They almost moved in together before all hell broke loose. Nobody knows for sure what happened. One day John was fine, next day he clammed up on everyone he knew, living mostly in recluse. Greg is one of a few friends John still willingly hangs out with.

 

"Maybe this is just a phase. Everyone has their own way to grieve, I suppose."

 

Greg links his hands together, nodding absently. "Would it be too much to ask you to keep a closer eye on him?"

 

"Of course not. Not at all," Mrs. Hudson waves her hand dismissively, "Maybe I'll start bringing him breakfast. Some pastries and his favourite tea. That ought to do him some good."

 

XXX

 

"Do you believe in ghost?" John asks conversationally while leaning over a stabbing victim at the morgue.

 

Young girl in mid-twenties, found in her flat with several deep wounds on her stomach. He really isn't supposed to be involving a civilian in an ongoing crime investigation, but one of the girl's relatives turns to be one of those #believeinsherlock  _retweeters_  and has insisted on personally hiring Doctor Watson to help with the case. John never says a thing about these people, but there seems to be quite a number of them who send him encouraging emails and cases to work on. Some of them even came to 221b to offer John cases, according to Mrs. Hudson.

 

"I try not to," the Inspector replies after hesitating for a moment, wondering where the conversation is heading. "Because of my line of work. I see dead people almost everyday. Wouldn't be good to fear them." 

 

This would be the perfect moment to include Molly in the conversation, except that she has long scurried away only a few minutes after they arrived ("I--I'm going to bring some tea."). Maybe later he will ask John why the girl seems oddly uncomfortable around them.

 

"What if it is the ghost of someone you know? Would you fear them too?"

 

Greg frowns, mentally noting that Mrs. Hudson's pastries selection hasn't done its intended effect just yet. If anything, John looks even smaller than before. And weaker too. And now that he starts spouting things... of this nature, maybe it's time to set everything else aside and ask help from the higher power.

 

"I suppose no, John." Greg fishes his phone out carefully.

 

_NEED TO TALK. SHERLOCK PROBLEM. ISH. -L_

 

It leaves a bad taste in his mouth, but it has always been the only way to ensure a reply.

 

_Car parked up front. Come at your convenience. -MH_

 

Greg releases the breath he doesn't know he was holding, only to find that his relief is short-lived.

 

"Then why am I so scared, Greg?"

 

John is now standing back up, shoulders hunched. Greg holds his gaze at the doctor's back, eyebrow raised.

 

"What if I tell you... that Sherlock comes to my room at night. It's been more than a year." John's expression is a parody of calm and acceptance, with his eyes sombre and voice gravelly. "Sometimes he gives me clues about the cases, sometimes he just stands in the corner and stares at me with sad eyes, bleeding heavily from his head."

 

Greg froze in his place, paralyzed by flashes of images, of what John could have been seeing.

 

"I've been having blackouts." As John turns to face him, Greg could have sworn for a second there he can see the ghostly face of the consulting detective hovering behind the doctor, shooting him cold glare with dead eyes.

 

"I think he is possessing me."

 

XXX

 

When Greg tells Mycroft Holmes that his younger brother's ghost has been coming to John's room every night in addition of possessing his flatmate's body during the day, he expects something more. He would be able to understand if Mycroft has doubts, or if he gets upset at the implication that his brother hasn't quite rested in peace, but not this... flat-out refusal.

 

"My personal belief in regard of supernatural entities aside, I find such scenario highly improbable," the older Holmes says promptly, leaning his head to the side against his arm, perched on the armrest.

 

"How can you be so sure?" Greg glowers at him, partly because Mycroft has the galls to look so pristine in his three-piece suit at one bloody a.m.

 

Mycroft offers him a sardonic smile as he twirls his fingers around the handle of his ever-present umbrella.

 

"Let's just say that I have ways of acquiring and asserting facts."

 

Greg almost laughs, "What, is there some sort of secret government research facility to investigate those?"

 

Mycroft's lips quirk up, but doesn't answer.

 

"I shall see to it that your concerns are addressed, Inspector. You have my word." Mycroft suddenly says as Greg prepares to leave. 'Julie' has graciously informed him earlier that Mycroft can't grant him audience for long ("It is always business hour somewhere, Inspector.")

 

"Even in the light of our rather trying relationship at the moment, I care for John Watson. He has made Sherlock a better man and I will always respect him for that."

 

Greg makes a small noise of acknowledgement before closing the door behind him.

 

XXX

 

During his last semi-drunken attempt to console John, Greg fortuitously landed himself a night at 221b on the weekend. As he stands in front of the building, clutching his overnight duffel bag, he ashamedly acknowledges the dread that seeps inside his chest. He has no idea what the night's experience might entail, and the only bullet point in his to-do list is 'improvise'.

 

"You don't have to do this."

 

John. Kind, morally sound, reliable, far-too-thin Doctor John Watson tells him at the doorway with a wry smile that can't possibly convey the extent of his distress.

 

"I brought beer." Greg presses a reassuring hand on the other man's shoulder as he slips inside and climbs up the stairs, trying to ignore the odd thickness in the air and the nagging feeling of someone's stare on the back of his neck.

 

XXX

 

Greg doesn't know what to think as he steps inside the flat for the first time since John's moving. Everything is put back in place like someone up there just decided to set the clock back two years. The armchairs, the sofa, the skull, the bookshelf, the chemistry set on the kitchen table, everything looks exactly the same as it was before Sherlock's death. With this arrangement, he can somewhat understand if John should expect Sherlock coming out of his room anytime while declaring out loud how mind-numbingly peaceful London is. He is tempted to check inside the microwave to see if the eyeballs are there, but so far he can't smell anything putrid from the kitchen area so perhaps John hasn't progressed that far. Yet.

 

"Would you mind taking the room upstairs?" John asks, ignoring his protests as he picks up the inspector's bag.

 

"I'll take the sofa. I don't mind," Greg says, but John has already climbed up to stow his bag in the bedroom.

 

"I have been sleeping in Sherlock's room since I moved back in."

 

Greg narrows his eyes, "Is there where you said he..."

 

John nods warily, avoiding the other man's eyes as he slips past Greg to sit on Sherlock's armchair.

 

"I told myself everyday, that tonight I would finally sleep, tonight I didn't want to see him, tonight I needed the rest because I just had the longest shift at the surgery..." John leans forward, resting his elbows on both thighs, hands clasped together just below his chin (Sherlock's thinking pose, Greg observes with a shiver).

 

"I couldn't believe my own eyes. It didn't make any sense. It didn't matter what I decided during the day, when the night came and I passed by his door, I was just... I wanted to see if he would be there. If he was really a figment of my imagination or... Christ, this is so messed up."

 

"John, about the blackouts," Greg moves to take John's usual armchair, "Can you tell me more about it?"

 

God knows Greg has little to no theoretical knowledge when it comes to psychological studies, but he knows that the sightings, at the very least, can be attributed to some kind of backlash of a mental trauma and are mostly harmless. The blackouts, on the other hand, spawn an entirely different kind of risk. He just can't imagine not being in total control of his body, losing consciousness and waking up elsewhere without being able to fill in the blanks. It means John can no longer be held accountable to the things he does nor says. If things get worse, the doctor might even lose his job.

 

John leans back and nods, swallowing hard as he begins to talk.

 

"It started a few weeks after I moved back in. In the morning, a client came to the flat. He suspected one of his employees had been taking bribes from the vendors, but he couldn't figure out which. He didn't want to involve the police until he was sure, so he asked me to conduct the initial examination."

 

"At first I was inclined to decline. But locum work was slow and money was tight since I had to pay for the flat alone... He convinced me he would pay for the investigation even if in the end none of them was proven guilty. The job seemed pretty straightforward to me, so I agreed to do it. The next day I came to his office and interviewed everyone. I did background checks for each strong suspect, I reviewed the paperwork for a few days. In the end, I found out that not only one of them was guilty, in fact it was common practice for most of them. That's how they had been getting away with it, because they covered for each other. Suffice to say that they were not pleased with my involvement, and apparently one of them knew this... junkie with a shank. He confronted me on my way home and tried to stab me."

 

John clears his throat and inhales deeply, frowning in discomfort, "H---He caught me by surprise. I fell, hit my head on the pavement. It was the last thing I remembered."

 

Greg nods quietly, silently hoping that the story won't end with him having to choose between his constable attestation and his friend.

 

"When I woke up, I was already standing up. My head hurt like someone just hit it with a sodding mallet... I felt... disoriented. I just collapsed. When the pain subsided, I opened my eyes... and the junkie was just lying there... on the ground. I thought he was dead, but then he started groaning. I checked his vitals to make sure that he wouldn't... perish before the ambulance arrived. He was barely conscious."

 

"I didn't know at the time, but I could feel it; that I was the one responsible for his injuries. My knuckles were bruised, and my... my body was aching too, like I was just involved in a brawl... but I needed to confirm it. I followed him to the hospital. So I could ask him what exactly happened."

 

"Did you get to ask him?"

 

John shakes his head, closing his eyes momentarily, "I didn't even get a word in. He was so bloody terrified of me, he couldn't stand my proximity. I had to leave before he made a commotion."

 

"It wasn't all. Afterwards, I went home and took a scalding shower. I closed my eyes just for a second..."

 

Greg instinctively darts his eyes at the direction of the bathroom.

 

"When I finished, I looked at the mirror and I saw this." John tucks his phone out of his pocket, punching a few buttons before handing it over to the inspector. His fingers feel dreadfully cold against Greg's warm ones.

 

Greg narrows his eyes. John has taken a photograph of the fogged mirror, on which someone whose handwriting is eerily similar to Sherlock's has written:

 

_I DID IT TO PROTECT YOU._

 

Hell, Greg already read it with Sherlock's voice in his mind. Sherlock was ruthless and had always been protective of John. It was way too easy to visualize: the brilliant Sherlock Holmes, bending the rules of the dead with his intellect, deciding to follow his best friend around, solving cases and beating bad guys from the other world. Now that Sherlock is free from his bothersome 'transport', there is no limit for his ever-expanding mind. No risk of physical deterioration. Just him, his brilliance, and John. Frankly that is probably Sherlock's most accurate rendition of heaven.

 

"It was me, Greg." John's grim face greets him as he puts the phone away, "Nobody else was inside the flat at the moment, I checked. Ghosts can't touch things, at least not according to my knowledge. He took over my body for a while and wrote it. He did the same thing with the junkie. He beat him half to death, with my hands."

 

Greg inhales deeply, eyeing the open pack of cigarettes on the table. God would a smoke be fantastic right now.

 

"You can have it, you know," John suddenly says, "The cigarette. I don't mind."

 

The inspector hesitates only for a moment before guiltily lighting himself one. His first drag feels graciously long and liberating.

 

"Would you like one?" He offers, noting how John seems entranced by the soft glow at the end of the slender tube.

 

John shakes his head. "The urge to smoke... it comes and goes. I'm just not feeling it right now."

 

"Right," Greg exhales slowly. It is wonderful. He can feel his head getting just a little bit clearer. "The way you have been behaving like Sherlock, how did it start?"

 

"Yeah... about that... people have been telling me about it." John seems genuinely baffled at the indictment. "Exactly how have I been behaving like Sherlock?" 

 

"You do realize you are sitting on his chair?"

 

John looks down, flushes a little and starts to laugh, "Well didn't I sound so bloody clever just now."

 

Greg allows himself a smile. In some rare moments when John laughs like this, he can almost pretend that nothing has gone wrong. Just two mates hanging out together for the weekend. No PTSD, no ghostly presence, the worst thing that awaits them tomorrow is severe hangover.

 

XXX

 

Greg stirs awake to the numbness of his arm, where his head was apparently rested on during his drunken doze on the armchair. A quick glance at the sofa confirms where John has ended up at, lying on his side, sleeping quite peacefully for someone who claims to have been haunted by his dead flatmate. Greg likes to think that his presence is to thank for that. John must have spent months alone thinking he was going mad before he opened up to Greg today. And while he hasn't been able to come up with a solution, it must have brought a little relief.

 

"Everything okay?" John suddenly murmurs, half-asleep.

 

"Sleep, John," Greg pulls the quilt to cover John's shoulder, patting him gently on the back. "Everything's fine."

 

Satisfied by the level conviction in his tone, Greg moves away to relieve himself at the loo, all the beer is settling heavy, low on his stomach. When he returns, he approaches the sitting room to retrieve his phone before retreating upstairs, only to find himself frozen in place, staring at the door to Sherlock's room.

 

_"It didn't matter what I decided during the day, when the night came and I passed by his door, I was just..."_

 

He darts his eyes to John, who is fast asleep, then back at the door.

 

_"I have been sleeping in Sherlock's room since I moved back in."_

 

_"Sherlock comes to my room at night."_

_"Sometimes he just stands in the corner and stares at me with sad eyes, bleeding heavily from his head."_

 

Greg almost falls back when he realizes he has been holding his breath. The flat feels uncharacteristically silent. He glances at his watch. It's a little past three in the morning. If ghost does exist, this would be about the right time to show up, at least according to popular culture.

 

_"I wanted to see if he would be there. If he was really a figment of my imagination."_

 

He takes a deep breath, feeling his heart race. This would help John, he tells himself. John confides in him. If he could tell John that he doesn't see anything, that might just be the kind of placebo the doctor needs.

 

Greg can feel himself moving slowly towards the door. A part of him is kicking and screaming, begging his feet to just stop moving. Another part is just bloody desperate for answer.

 

"Sherlock," he croaks out as he touches the cold surface of the doorknob. "I'm coming in."

 

XXX

 

As Greg flicks the light on, he is greeted by the image of a fairly normal-looking bedroom. Fairly being the operative word, as in compared to the haphazard mess of a sitting room. He has stepped inside this room several times but it never fails to baffle him how the room seems to resemble a gallery rather than a place to rest. But then again, knowing Sherlock, he probably only used the room for proper sleep one night out of seven.

 

Preparing himself for the worst, Greg straightens his back and looks over his surroundings. The bed is made, the desk looks sparse and every surface seems spotless. Although John claims to have moved in, he couldn't see the doctor's possessions around the place. Every book on the desk, every clothing article in the cupboard belongs to Sherlock. If John doesn't even dare to move his belongings in to the room, why would he force himself to stay there? Or is that what John considers himself to be; one of Sherlock Holmes' personal effects?

 

Greg ends his inspection feeling a bit depressed, and just a little relieved. Throwing one last cursory glance across the room, he waits for a few seconds before closing the door, willing something to show up. Nothing does.

 

Not inside the room.

 

When Greg turns around and catches Sherlock's ghostly pale profile hunched above John's sleeping form on the sofa, for a moment it feels like his heart is going to leap out of his chest. His brain is overloaded with outbursts of memories, from the first time he met Sherlock Holmes to the time he collapsed outside the morgue after having to identify his body. It is the closest thing Greg has ever experienced to what people refer as the way one's entire life will flash before their eyes before death.

 

He closes his eyes, and when he opens it again, Sherlock's semi-transparent figure is still there. He is wearing the exact same clothes he wore when he died, staring down at John's sleeping face. His head doesn't seem to be bleeding, but his eyes are every bit as sad as John has described.

 

Greg has never felt so terrified in his life. This is the end. He is going to die from the shock of seeing Sherlock's ghost.  _God_ ,  _he is going to die_.

 

"S---Sherlock---" he wheezes out, belatedly realizing that during his panic attack he has fallen down with his back pressed against the door. His legs are scrambling to make more distance between him and the numinous presence, pushing himself back as far as he can.

 

He freezes as Sherlock finally turns to him, gazing down his soul with impossibly pale eyes.

 

The detective's lips moves. His voice comes as a whisper in Greg's ear.

 

_Lestrade._

 

XXX

 

At two in the afternoon the next day, Greg arrives at Speedy's cafe, jaw set and eyes grim.

 

"Afternoon," John looks up from his tea and greets him, seeming well-rested for once. Greg offers him a small nod as he takes his seat.

 

"I'm sorry for leaving without waking you this morning."

 

"It's okay, really," John takes a sip of his tea, frowning at the taste before reaching for the sugar container. Greg promptly catches his hand.

 

"You don't take sugar, John. Sherlock did." He says at John's inquiring eyes. "Don't let him win."

 

"What..." John starts to laugh, pulling his arm back, "Why are you saying this? Who wins what?"

 

"I saw him, John." Greg throws him a meaningful look. "Sherlock isn't just a part of your imagination. He is real. I saw him yesterday. He really is haunting you."

 

John opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again, eyes downcast. "I thought... I thought he would only show himself to me. You must be terrified. God, I am so sorry."

 

"Look," Greg pushes, "I am not upset about that. I am worried about you. You can't let Sherlock take over your body, not even for a moment, you hear me?"

 

Much to his frustration, John looks away, withdrawn. "Why yes, of course. Because clearly I am the one in control here. I can decide when he can knock me out and take the wheel."

 

"The junkie you told me about yesterday. I found him. He had four broken ribs and very nearly punctured his lungs. He could have died." He tries to explain, lowering his voice, "He confirmed that you were the one who bludgeoned him. He said that you kept kicking him even after he fell down and begged you to stop. Is that the life that you want, John? You could seriously hurt someone without knowing about it!"

 

"It is Sherlock, Greg. It's not just... not just some stranger. He was just trying to protect me." John's eyes flutter fretfully, "If it wasn't for him, it would have been me.  _I_  could have died."

 

"The John Watson I know would have preferred that to the alternative."

 

For a moment, they just lock eyes, willing the other to back down. John's lips form a tight line, his brows creased. He probably thinks that Greg can't possibly understand, how the intertwined feelings of happiness and fear almost robbed him of coherence when he first realized that his dearest friend and flatmate was back in his life. How hard it was for him to come to terms with it and how he will risk losing his mind reliving the loss again. What John doesn't understand is the extent of Greg's trust for him, how highly Greg has always regarded him for being Sherlock's moral compass. Even at the moment, he trusts John to see through his grief and choose the right thing to do. If a firm push on the back is what he needs, Greg will give it to him, because that's what friends do.

 

"I..." John starts, a little breathlessly. "I will try to talk to him... tonight."

 

"If you need me to be present, all you have to do is ask."

 

"No, no. I definitely have to do this alone." John's eyes are cast down, but otherwise determined. Greg can feel relief washes over him, knowing John will do the right thing, as he always does.

 

XXX

 

If there were something different about the glint in John's eyes when he arrived at the crime scene that morning, Greg was too preoccupied by the case to notice.

 

"Amber Fletcher, twenty-five years old, multiple stab wounds on her stomach, found in her bedroom this morning by her flatmate. She was last seen alive last night when she went to bed after attending a party," he explains as John examines the body closely.

 

"We found some blood under her nails, tests are being run right now. I think there's a good chance we will be able to nail this serial bastard soon," Anderson adds, gleaming with pride at his contribution.

 

"So you think we're looking at a serial killer," John murmurs low under his breath as he moves around the room, darting his eyes around rapidly.

 

"Obviously," Anderson snorts, "Similar M.O., same age group, same eye and hair colour as the last victim. The only difference is he screwed up big this time, leaving some of his DNA on the victim's body. That will be his undoing."

 

"Truly extraordinary, Anderson," John stops moving and turns to the forensic officer with a big smile, "Just when I thought you couldn't get anymore obtuse, you just go for the extra mile and prove me wrong."

 

Anderson instantly flushes, indignant. "Wh--what--did you just call m---"

 

"First of all, it's not a he. It's a she. In the first murder, there were physical evidences of a struggle, while right here you can see the sheets are undisturbed and the pillows are barely upturned. The victim was drugged before subsequently brought to her bed and stabbed. See the dragging marks on the carpet, they indicate that the victim was too heavy for the perpetrator. Victim is a slim girl, a man should have been able to carry her with little trouble."

 

"But the blood under her nails---"

 

"Would turn up to be her own DNA. It came from the graze on her elbow. The skin was irritated, it was itchy so she kept scratching it until it bled."

 

"How did you know about the female part? Not being strong enough to carry her can only indicate a physically-stunted person. Or just a drunk." Greg cocks his head curiously.

 

"There's no sign of forced entry, that automatically puts the one with the key, her flatmate, to the top of the suspect list. She claims to have seen the victim turn in for the night while clearly she was unconscious when she was brought here. She just went home from a party, she wore big flashy earrings. If she entered the room on her own while intending to go to sleep, she would have taken off the uncomfortable accessories and washed her make up off. As you can see, she is still wearing the earrings and her party make up. Her flatmate lied about the last time she saw her alive. She has the chance, the means, and possibly some dull, short-sighted motives to kill her. Frankly, Lestrade, why you are not having her in custody yet is beyond me."

 

Greg nods and quickly instructs a sergeant to detain the flatmate.

 

"Look, Doctor Watson," Anderson stops John before the doctor can exit the room, sputtering with rage, "I don't know what your problem is, but--"

 

"Leave it, Anderson. I need to speak to John."

 

Greg's face remain neutral as both men turn to him with identical quizzical looks.

 

"Alone," he adds before Anderson can come up with a retort. The forensic officer throws John one last glare as he strides away, spouting curses under his breath. 

 

"John, remember our conversation yesterday?" The inspector asks, crossing his arms.

 

John purses his lips, frowning. "Yes, I do. And I'd rather you just get to the point. A suspect to interrogate, remember?"

 

"I promise this won't take long. You said you'd talk to Sherlock. How'd that go?"

 

"It's... fine. I guess," John looks down, shifting his legs, "We have reached quite an impasse, I am afraid, since he can't really make himself disappear, you see..."

 

Greg gives him a considering look, rubbing his chin. "Right. It's good. Good. Okay. What's my first name?"

 

Has the situation been any less grave, Greg would have laughed at the vacant look in John's face.

 

"Deleted it again? I am hurt, Sherlock."

 

XXX

 

"You are a shite friend." Greg says accusingly.

 

Now that his cover has been blown, John readily wears Sherlock's usual facial expressions. At the moment, it is the 'I don't quite get what you are implying and I am not impressed'.

 

"You deleted my name, and you are using John's body like some sort of outdoor coat."

 

"Fine," Sherlock snorts, stirring ungodly amount of sugar in to his tea. "If you want John back, you can have him after the case."

 

"For God's sake, Sherlock, how could you just--" Greg sputters, "You died. Why'd you come back? How?"

 

"Dull," Sherlock sips on his tea, "That's why you're always stumped with the cases. You keep asking the wrong questions."

 

"Sherlock," he says in his most menacing no-nonsense tone, "This isn't a bloody game. John is my friend. I won't let you, not even you, to take over his body. Now tell me, is John still in there or have you kicked him out for good?"

 

"Kicked him out you say," the consulting detective mock-laughs, "I suppose it can be an appropriate analogy to simplify things for you. John is Mrs. Hudson, his body is 221b,  and I am myself."

 

"Well, simplify this, you sod," Greg watches the brief look of surprise in the detective's borrowed face with satisfaction as he shoves him against the wall, "Leave. John. Alone."

 

"Lestrade, I know you are just trying to protect John so I am going to let this slide." Sherlock wheezes out, "Let me off. Now."

 

Greg does, only because he doesn't want to hurt the vessel.

 

"I won't hurt John. In fact, it was how I discovered this ability at the first place. Because I wanted to protect him."

 

"You almost got him convicted for murder."

 

"I was furious and I miscalculated, it was my first time wearing someone else's body!"

 

An officer passes by and is giving them a strange look. Greg curses.

 

"Shouldn't have done this here," mutters the inspector.

 

"Should have let me in the interrogation room. I would have cracked her in minutes." Sherlock hisses impatiently. "The sooner you let me conclude this case, the sooner John will have his body back."

 

"No, Sherlock," Greg says, lowering his voice just in case another person comes in, "We need to have this conversation. I won't let you get away."

 

"Oh, make up your mind!" Sherlock snaps, "First you don't want me here, and now you won't let me go! What exactly do you want me to say? I didn't choose to have this--pathetic excuse of an existence I have been reduced to!"

 

"When I was alive, I was a machine, spinning out of control. But then at least I saw the means to an end. Now I am just a machine, spinning out of control, without being able to--to affect anything around me. I can see but I can't be seen. I can hear but I can't be heard. All the things, all the people, they are within my reach but I can't touch them."

 

"You asked me why, and how I came back to the world like this, well I don't know. The last thing I remember was falling to my demise, and then waking up in Baker Street as--this."

 

Greg falls silent, fists clenched. How dare he, how dare Sherlock Holmes sound so human when he isn't. How dare he remind Greg of the thin, misguided young man he first met many years ago. How could he so easily convince Greg to forget about John for a moment and just cry for him; for his death, all over again?

 

As his vision starts to blur, Greg promptly turns his back on Sherlock. He doesn't know why he bothers. It shouldn't take a genius consulting detective to know that his lungs are hurting from the pent-up emotions.

 

"You can see the suspect, if you're amenable," he croaks out arduously.

 

Sherlock considers it for a moment before humming his agreement and stepping away.

 

"Just..."

 

Sherlock halts his steps momentarily.

 

"Promise me. That you won't let John disappear."

 

There is barely a pause.

 

"I promise."

 

XXX

 


	2. Hour of the Hound

_Four months later_

 

BREAKING NEWS: THE BACHELOR VS DEADEYE, TODAY IN COURT

_Sebastian 'Deadeye' Moran, one of the most dangerous snipers in the world, was detained over a month ago for committing at least sixty-one contract killings. Being a professional murder-for-hire, his victims largely fell within the high-profile community, including former minister Stewart Lauder, and fiction author Ronald Adair. In the last four years, Deadeye Moran is rumoured of have vanquished over one-hundred lives, each with only one lethal shot, usually aimed to the head. Moran's distinguished vocation came to a premature end when Confirmed Bachelor John Watson, former partner of amateur detective Sherlock Holmes who killed himself after being exposed as a fraud two years ago, tracked him down and shot him through his shoulder. Today at_ _noon_ _, Moran will be brought to trial at the Old Bailey, presenting John Watson as an expert witness to the events leading to his arrest. DI Lestrade refuses to comment as people start comparing today's trial to the disastrous trial of 'Jewel Thief James Moriarty', with Boffin Holmes as the expert witness._

 

 

"Sir,"

 

Mycroft puts down the newspaper.

 

"It's time."

 

 

XXX

 

 

"Colonel Sebastian Moran, a retired military man, gave the outward appearance of a respectable man. He was an author, an adventurer, a sportsman, and a member of London's most respectable club."

 

Inside a parked car on a deserted area near Warwick Square, Mycroft calmly glances at his pocket watch as he listens to John's press interview through his earpiece.

 

"According to my investigation, which might or might not conform to the Scotland Yard's, Colonel Moran is responsible for a rather significant number of unsolved cases in the last few years. In fact, it was one of those cases which brought my attention to him. The murder of Ronald Adair back in 2010. As most of you have probably known, he was a renowned author. You've probably read his book, the, um, Down with The Tiger."

 

"It was not publicly known but Mister Adair's publicist made a statement once regarding the origin of the novel's storyline. It was inspired from Mister Adair's friend's true experience when he was trapped by a tiger in the forest. The 'friend' was apparently also an author, and he actually intended to publish the same story. He was only halfway done when Mister Adair published his, and threatened to sue. A week later, Mister Adair was shot in the head while attending a charity event in Surrey. I wouldn't go into the details, but I have found solid evidence of Mister Moran's involvement in this incident, which I have imparted to the police before his arrest. All will revealed in today's trial."

 

Mycroft gives his chauffeur a small nod, eyes fixed on his phone. The car starts.

 

"What--really? You're asking about him now? No, I will not comment on Sherlock Holmes. Frankly I don't give a toss about the incriminating articles, or mad theorists with too much time on their hands. While we're at it, yes, Anderson, I know you're the 'anonymous source'. If I were you I'd be careful with that new watch. You know what they say, easy come, easy go."

 

"Here's the only thing you need to hear from me about Sherlock Holmes: he was my best friend and nothing will ever convince me that he told me a lie."

 

 

XXX

 

 

Mycroft leans back and sighs quietly as he looks down at the scattered array of papers and photographs on his desk. The antique clock on the corner ticks past the twelve hour mark. It is now three AM. He sweeps his tired eyes across the empty study. Sherlock returns his gaze from the dark corner of the room with empty black sockets instead of sharp pale eyes. Mycroft heaves in a deep breath and closes his eyes, willing the sinister chimera away. When he opens his eyes again, he only sees a coat stand where his overcoat is laid on. His younger brother has always signified a lot of things in his mind. He is brilliant, obstinate, petulant, arrogant, and many more. This is just one of those dreary times when he is dead.

 

Sherlock was alive after he jumped off from the St. Barts rooftop two years ago, Mycroft knows that much in the least. Not because Sherlock told him anything about his plan or because he helped him with his trick, obviously. It was thanks to one particularly well-positioned camera near the taxi pool at Heathrow Airport. Having dyed his hair red, Sherlock also wore a hat and enshrouded his gait with an oversized dark jacket. He actively avoided showing his face to the cameras and managed to do so quite brilliantly, there was only one brief moment with the clear shot of his face. Mycroft was only too happy to destroy the original footage and kept the only hard copy in his hidden vault. To this day he practices his restraint everyday by not viewing it every time he feels a shred of doubt about Sherlock's wellbeing. What happened to his brother from the point on is, quite unfortunately, out of his hands and his sight. 

In the last two years, Sherlock predictably never sought him out for help. Every other month he would receive sighting reports from his most trusted men across the world, but no one has actually managed to get a clear sight of the consulting detective or take a decent enough picture to ease his discomfort. Sherlock might have survived the fall, but with a noble quest to unravel Moriarty's worldwide criminal webs, not even Mycroft could deduce what might or might have become of him. For all he knows, Sherlock could have been bleeding to death in a ditch or being held captive by some criminal lord in another continent by now.

 

When Lestrade came to tell him about Sherlock's ghost haunting John, he didn't miss the subtle grimace in 'Ruby's face. She probably didn't miss the slight twitch of his brow either as he promptly refuted the theory. His knee-jerk reaction was dread. Coming second was curiosity. All the talk about transcendent beings had caught him off-guard. Obviously there was a division somewhere that was actively investigating such matters, only not in his area. He sat there all night weighing his options, occasionally browsing some classified research files to collect the facts. The next morning, he installed military-grade surveillance in 221b. Not even 'Ruby' had the clearance to access the recorded video files. He was determined to keep the matter to himself, watching them on his phone or laptop in-between parliamentary meetings, multi-national conferences, private parties and charity events.

 

On the first night after the cameras were installed, John stopped dead on his track near the doorway, darting his eyes across the room with a frown before heading back downstairs, calling for Mrs. Hudson.

 

 _"Did someone come in to my flat earlier?"_  Mycroft could hear him ask her.

 

_"Not that I know of, dear. I was there in the afternoon to tidy up a bit, but no one else has come."_

 

John told her not to worry and gave her a kiss, then he re-entered the flat and came in to view again. The first thing he did was repositioning the skull, to presumably what he considered its former position. When John looked up and stared at the general direction of one of the cameras (the one hidden inside the wall behind the bison skull), for a moment Mycroft thought he was going to discover and dismantle it. But instead the doctor turned around and sat down on the chair, turning the telly on. He sat there for a long time, not once switching the channel.

 

A week passed before another noteworthy event occurred, namely Detective Inspector Lestrade. The inspector arrived at 221b in the afternoon, carrying an overnight bag, which was quickly stowed away in John's room upstairs (he was going to stay the night). Pleasantries were exchanged, then John started to talk about the haunting. Just as John finished his story, 'Lisa' texted him the identity and the current address of the junkie. He watched the rest of the footage inside the car, on his way to a private addiction rehabilitation centre in North London. Halfway there, he texted 'Lisa' asking for all the photos stored in John Watson's phone. He finished downloading them on his laptop ten minutes later. His attending PA threw him nervous glances from the front seat as he frowned at the screen, zooming in on the writing on the fogged mirror. The handwriting was similar to Sherlock's, and most importantly it was written with a right hand. John Watson was left-handed.

 

"He collapsed after the first blow," the recovering junkie, a misguided young man in mid-twenties, finally agreed to talk after some 'friendly persuasion'. "I thought, that was it. I didn't intend to kill him, I was just told to rattle him a bit, you know, send a message."

 

Mycroft tilted his head disinterestedly, tapping his finger on the armchair to the tempo of Boccherini's String Quintet that had been playing in the car earlier.

 

"When I kneeled to pat him down for his wallet and stuff, he suddenly elbowed me, right in the gut. I reeled on the ground for a while, before I knew it, he was standing next to me. There was... something was just not right, I could feel-no, I could see it. His eyes looked different." The junkie bit his lower lip, straddling his arms fretfully. "I begged him to let me go, threw my knife away, held up my hands, but he just-kept--kicking my chest. He kicked, and kicked, and kicked, and kicked... I just lost it then. When I woke up I was at the hospital. He tried to talk to me, his expression was back to normal by then but I wasn't going to take the chance. Called mum, told her to transfer me to another hospital."

 

"It was most informative, Mister..." Mycroft gave the impression of trying to remember the name, then held up his hand when the young man was about to remind him. "However you have failed to deliver, perhaps the most vital part of the narrative."

 

The junkie stared at him, baffled.

 

"The man's expression as he beat you down," Mycroft crossed his legs and raised his chin, "How would you describe it, I wonder."

 

The young man pursed his lips in disgust, brows knitted, clutching himself even tighter.

 

"Pretty damn chuffed I say."

 

 

XXX

 

 

 _FOOTAGE #89 Sherlock's Room_ _CAM_ _011 CH03_

 _(_ _18/02/2013_ _01:28 AM)_

_John enters the room. He doesn't switch on the light, but leaves the door open instead, letting the light from the corridor seep in to the room, just enough for him to navigate himself to the bed. As he sits down on the side, his left hand starts making repeated clenching motions, obviously distressed._

_"Sherlock," he starts, voice hoarse, "I think... I think I am done... I am just done. I don't want to avoid you... avoid this anymore... I know you're here, I saw you here so many times before... Greg saw you too last night so I guess it wasn't just my imagination... I need to know if you can talk to me."_

_The doctor falls silent for a moment, eyes transfixed on the wall across the bed in awe. He sees something there. Something that can't possibly be happening._

_"God... you're really here..." He whispers, palming his mouth, "I missed you so much, Sherlock. God help me, I do."_

_For a moment, it seems a little hard for him to speak. He just sits with his head low, trying to control his breathing._

_"Why wouldn't you talk to me before?"_

_"Not a good excuse, Sherlock. People already thought I was mad the moment they learned that you're my flatmate. I already thought I was mad when I let you keep body parts where we keep food."_

_"No, I threw those out. It's been two years, Sherlock. TWO bloody years. Have you been here the whole time?"_

_A long pause._

_"I see... so that's why it took you some time before you reached out to me..."_

_"Seriously, though, you should have just shown yourself and talked to me from the beginning. I wouldn't have cared for the bloodied head if you'd just talk like this instead of standing quietly in the corner. I'm not squeamish. A doctor, remember?"_

_"Why would you want to do that? Even without all the blood, you've scared him witless, for God's sake."_

_A giggle. "Okay, that was a bit funny. But it's no excuse to try it again. I'm dead serious. Don't do that again, to anyone you hear me?"_

_"Of course I am excluded, you git. You can show yourself to me anytime. Just don't do that to anybody else."_

_"Christ... what am I doing here... Greg asked me to tell you to go away, not to make up some bloody rules for insufferable ghosts..."_

_"It was just an expression! Of course I don't see other ghosts. I don't want to."_

_"Don't blame him too much. He is just worried about me. Maybe if you'd talk to him... nope. Maybe not. He'll probably just ward you away with crucifix and garlic."_

_"Heh, figured you'd have deleted pop culture and occult knowledge. That one actually requires you to know both to get."_

_A resigned sigh. "I don't know, Sherlock, not that much. Not really my area. I have sooner declared myself barmy before admitting your existence, remember? If you want me to, I can look it up on the internet."_

_"I'm still not sure if I'm comfortable with you... doing that."_

_"It's awfully invasive. I don't particularly enjoy waking up somewhere I don't know, not knowing what I've done."_

_"I know you did it to protect me, Sherlock. You even left a note. Did you---did you do that often? Coming in while I'm in the shower? No, nevermind. At the second thought, I don't really want to know."_

_"You really can do that? I guess I wouldn't mind it so much if I can maintain some sort of awareness during... fine, fine, we'll take it slow. One step at a time."_

_"No, really, I don't mind, Sherlock. I wouldn't have brought it up otherwise. It doesn't seem like you're going anywhere for some time, I can only imagine your frustration, not being able to interact with your surroundings for so long. I can do it. I will be your transport. Just... don't starve me or smoke excessively."_

_"I can't believe I'm getting this lecture from you, of all people."_

_"It was never my intention to harm myself. Especially now that we're sharing this body, I promise to take a better care of it."_

_A smile. "That would be fantastic. The sleep-deprivation part should be a good place to start, considering the time. Do you--do you mind if I sleep here?"_

_"Good night, Sherlock."_

 

 

XXX

 

 

It is the second time Mycroft has driven up to a crime scene, rolled his window down and smoothly insinuated his intention to give Lestrade a ride back to New Scotland Yard. The Inspector watches his back warily before climbing up in to the backseat, next to Mycroft.

 

"If I may ask, what's the caution for?"

 

"Nothing," Lestrade huffs out a breath, clearing his throat. Mycroft pointedly raises an eyebrow, but isn't kept in suspense for long as 'Penny' promptly sends him a text about the Inspector's meddling colleagues post his rather messy divorce, and the circulating rumours about Lestrade's new rich--Mycroft decides to stop reading from that point.

 

"So you need to talk about something?" The Inspector shifts on his seat, clearly uncomfortable with the whole setting, even though Mycroft has especially called off two out of his three PAs and sternly warned his chauffeur-slash-bodyguard against glaring at Lestrade through the mirror.

 

"I'm afraid we'll still be dancing around the same issues, Inspector." He says, "It's about John Watson, and his sparked interest in press exposure. I'd say he has become quite the media darling, don't you think?"

 

Lestrade gives the notion a careful arc of brow. "Your brother wasn't much of a media darling himself and he had his face splashed on the front page anyway. I don't think it's his intention to attract so much attention."

 

"His speech earlier in front of the Old Bailey was rehearsed. And not just the words, he prepared everything down to his gestures and body language. There was a distinctive pause each time he switched expression. His appearances were impeccable, down to his tie-pin. If he only had the trial in mind, he wouldn't have gone through the trouble of picking up a new 600-pound suit. He could have entered the building through the back door but instead he braved the hordes and willingly gave an interview. He wasn't really listening to their questions, he just recited what he planned to say." Mycroft finishes with an apathetic flick of nail, "He convinced you to follow the trails that eventually led to Moran, yes?"

 

Lestrade's eyes narrow incredulously. "You are saying that John intentionally sought Moran out in order to be famous."

 

"That would be the logical assumption."

 

"And what for, exactly?" He challenges, "Why would he want to be famous?"

 

"I'm afraid I don't have enough data to process the information, Inspector. I was hoping you'd enlighten me." Mycroft states calmly, despite the other man's obvious exasperation.

 

"Well I'm sorry for not sharing your opinion, Mister Holmes. It's just hard to imagine. John is the least vain person I know. He might have had a surge of excess income lately from his consulting detective business. He wanted to look sharp for the trial and for once he actually had the money, I wouldn't blame him for wanting to splurge a bit. Besides..." Lestrade suddenly pauses. It only takes Mycroft one look to know that he was about to say something he wasn't supposed to. Mycroft narrows his eyes at him, wordlessly daring him to cover it up with a blatant lie. Lestrade turns out to be wiser than he looks, because after an ostensibly rather intense mental battle in his mind, he seems a little less determined to remain silent.

 

"Look, I know why John went after Moran." The detective's voice is even, like he is trying to be considerate, not to alarm Mycroft. "Moran was Moriarty's right hand man. It wasn't mentioned on the papers but Moran sought John out first. He sent him threatening letters and came to the clinic once to taunt him."

 

Mycroft looks mildly dubious. He gives the inspector an encouraging nod to continue as he texts 'Penny' to check the surveillance footage from the camera located right across John's clinic.

 

"Moran believed Sherlock was still alive. I read the letters. He claimed that Moriarty was dead and Sherlock was the one who had killed him. He intended to smoke Sherlock out by threatening John's life. John decided that he was too dangerous. He asked me to help him conduct an investigation to catch Moran first before he could hurt innocent bystanders the way Moriarty did." Lestrade explains.

 

"So you gave him access to the unresolved cases' files Moran was potentially involved with." Which is illegal, especially considering the scandal that has befallen the Scotland Yard after Sherlock's suicide.

 

"Moran did kill Ronald Adair, it was the only personal murder he conducted that could be directly linked to him." The Inspector emphasizes, "If he were anything like Moriarty, he could have killed more people for a game. He is a cold-blooded, vicious murderer. We've got him now. I'd do it all over again."

 

Mycroft returns the man's gaze, unsmiling. On the screen of his phone is the captured CCTV image of Moran, lightly disguised in dark long coat and a baseball cap, coming out of the clinic. Lestrade is telling a half-truth at least.

 

"You're full of surprises, Inspector. I didn't think you'd be foolish enough to risk your lifetime career for a friend, again."

 

"I did it plenty for your brother, not because he was a friend. I did it because he was a brilliant mind and he was right."

 

"And I'm supposed to take it that you hold John's intellect in the same regard too?"

 

"Mister Holmes," Lestrade's expression softens. Mycroft knows what he is about to say. The Inspector sat there on the same seat four months ago as he told him with a straight face that he had seen and talked to his brother's  _spirit_. That the brilliant Sherlock Holmes, in a laughably uncharacteristic way, had told him that he had had no idea how or why he couldn't have passed on and had decided to stay in Baker Street as this... trite intangible being. The little brother he knew would have sooner found a way to kill himself all over again if it would have helped him escape the void of ennui.

 

"I heard you the first time when you told me you found the whole premise 'incorrigibly absurd'. However,"

 

"You'll excuse me for that."

 

"However, I want you to know that I've been working together with him for four months now, and he has never given me any reasons for doubt. I still do believe that your brother... well, he is with John now. And I like to think that he is reasonably happy with this new arrangement." Lestrade seems immensely relieved, noting that they are about to arrive at his destination. "Maybe later after you've given it some thoughts you can go see him and confirm it yourself. With your Holmesian power of deductive reasoning or something."

 

"Oh but I have observed, Inspector." Mycroft's tone takes a dip for the lower end, "Enough to know that whatever is in there, it is just a poor imitation of what my brother was. The good doctor's mental health wasn't too reliable to begin with. Added together with his best friend's suicide, the only anchor in his new life as a civilian... One could say that it makes up the perfect blend for... let's say for instance, multiple personality disorder?"

 

Lestrade sighs, wearing the same frustrated expression whenever he thought Sherlock was being purposely difficult. 

 

"All I can say is that you should meet him yourself instead of observing him from afar. You'd know by then." 

 

The car stops. Lestrade throws him one last concerned look before nodding his goodbye, climbing out of the car.

 

"Baker Street, sir?" asks his driver attentively.

 

Mycroft makes a dismissive motion with his hand.

 

 

XXX

 

 

 _FOOTAGE #204 Sitting Room_ _CAM_ _002 CH01_

_(02/03/2013 10:23 AM)_

 

_"Good morning... John, I guess. What are you doing with that piece of flesh over there? Is that human tongue?"_

_John has the grace to look embarrassed, taking his face protector off and putting the solder away._

_"Sorry. An experiment. Sherlock insisted."_

_Lestrade nods dismissively and starts looking around the flat. It has gotten a lot more lively, with Sherlock's 'dead body' mannequin lying on the sofa, some books featuring maggots for the covers on the low table, and something  that has gotten charred beyond repair under the kitchen table._

_"Um, is Sherlock..." Lestrade starts twirling his finger before pointing it downwards._

_"Oh, no. I haven't seen him for a few hours now." John pauses, peers under the sofa, then stands back up again looking relieved despite Lestrade's open scandalized cringe. "Yep. Definitely not here."_

_"Ehm. Look, John, you know I'm perfectly fine with your new arrangement with Sherlock... It's just..." Lestrade starts hesitantly, placing both hands on his hips. "I'd like to know who I am dealing with, yeah? Just, maybe when you come to the crime scene, can you perhaps use something as some sort of signal to let me know if it's you or Sherlock? It would do me a world of favour."_

_John makes a small noise of acknowledgement, "Would the scarf be alright? I'll tell Sherlock to wear it when he goes out."_

_"Terrific. Ta, John," The Inspector smiles, tension leaving his back._

_"It just never occurred to me before, because, well, I thought it'd be pretty obvious. Sherlock and I, we aren't exactly similar, I guess?" The doctor adds as an afterthought, looking mildly uncomfortable._

_Lestrade offers him a sympathetic smile._

_"Really? I've been acting like him?" John starts to laugh timidly. "But I'm not---"_

_Lestrade clears his throat, "It's not that I can't tell you apart. Let's just say that there are some things that you usually do your way, now you do it Sherlock's way, mostly case-related stuff. I wouldn't lose sleep over it, surely you know about Sherlock's penchant for filling up the entire room with his presence. Maybe just try to not let him occupy the entire space there, yeah?"_

_John nods quietly, biting his lower lip. "Yeah, thanks for the heads up, Greg."_

_"No problem, mate. Anyway, I think I might have a case for both of you. A man burned down his house along with his entire family-- He is here right now, isn't he?"_

_John is glaring at something above Lestrade's head, jutting his finger, mouthing something that suspiciously sounds like 'YOU_ _GET_ _OFF HIS BACK RIGHT_ _NOW_ _! I SAID NO FLOATING!'._

 

XXX

 

The phone call comes at around seven-thirty on a Sunday morning. Mycroft is just settling down for breakfast (egg-whites and earl grey) when 'Jen' suddenly stumbles inside the room rather gracelessly and hands him her phone, face tight with concern. A part of him would be proud to learn that his expression remains detached as he listens to a man with broken English struggle to convey the news, except that nothing else seems to matter anymore. The person is trying to tell him that they have found Sherlock's body.

 

An hour into the flight, Mycroft begins to feel coherent enough to start viewing the files that have been swiftly faxed to his office. It just wouldn't do to let sentiment wipe out his entire hard drive. The flight will be for another fifteen hours, an adequate time for him to... reorganize.

 

No word is needed. A manila folder is propped on to his table as soon as 'Jen' recognizes the gleam returning in his eyes. There are photos, but given the advanced decomposition state of the body, it is almost impossible to tell, so he skips them altogether and goes straight to the reports. There has to be something. There is always something.

XXX

 

 

 _FOOTAGE #326 Sitting Room_ _CAM_ _002 CH04_

_(25/03/2013 03:42 PM)_

 

_Lestrade enters the sitting room, calling out John's name. No one answers._

_Lestrade opens the door to Sherlock's room, peers inside, then closes it again. He calls out John's name again. No one answers._

_Lestrade pulls out his phone and dials John's number. He puts it on for a few seconds before hanging up. Voicemail, most likely._

_"Mrs. Hudson, I don't think he is here," he says, voice fading out as he steps away from the flat, "It's okay, I'll just text him. I'll skip the tea, cheers."_

 

 

XXX

 

The weather is humid and hot 2200 miles away from London. Mycroft stops listening as soon as he ascertains that the attendant is just going to recite back the forensic report he has read. Focusing on the body--or rather, skeleton with bits of dried darkened flesh on it, Mycroft could barely restrain a cringe.

 

The height is about right, the bone structure matches the age and racial profile. 'Jen' has also confirmed that the dental record matches. Mycroft ignores her sideway worried glances and keeps his eyes across the body, taking in every seemingly trivial information. There is no way he is going to relate this pathetic pile of bones to his brother. If this were really Sherlock, he would have known from first time he laid his eyes on it. The fact that he is still able to make observations with cold precisions is enough of an evidence. As for the other evidences, he will find them. In time.

"He was buried shallow in an unattended field, about five kilometres from the nearest building, an abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of the town. Been dead for about a year. Some kids accidentally found him." The morgue attendant, a middle-aged Asian man who spoke fluent English, walks over to his desk to retrieve a cardboard box containing several plastic bags. "His clothes are mostly intact. No wallet or any kinds of identification. Fortunately we were able to extract some DNA samples from the bloodied shirt. I'll have it handed over to your assistant in a minute."

"I'm afraid that shall not be necessary," Mycroft suddenly says, looking up from the dead body with a pleasant smile. "Mister... Pho, isn't it?"

The man promptly turns to him, regarding his remark with polite curiosity.

 

"You have been working here for thirty years. Separated, with three teenage children, all in the custody of your wife. Which is probably for the best, considering your gambling problems and constant inebriation."

 

"Where did you say the body was found at?" Ignoring the unattractive gaping look in the other man's face, Mycroft casually retrieves the manila folder and flips it open, furrowing his brows. "Five kilometres from an abandoned warehouse that just happens to be the biggest underground gambling vault in town. Interesting." He puts it down again, face contorted in mock-pity. "Owed the house over fifteen thousand pounds last month. I'd say it wasn't a good month for you, but you eventually managed it pay it all back even tough your tax report claimed that you made roughly half the amount annually."

 

The attendant's eyes are wide with fear and disbelief, fight or flight response starting to kick in. He will soon realize that all possible exits of the room have been secured while Mycroft distracted him with his presence.

"It was the debt that did her in, you know. Your wife... Katrina. She still loved you at that point, but she couldn't risk her children's future. Wise woman." Mycroft continues, leaning casually on his umbrella. "I'd say you don't look very surprised. Did someone, perhaps another tall Englishman, come here and tell you the same thing before dropping a bundle of notes on the desk for a certain favour?"

 

The morgue attendant scuffles backwards, trapping himself between the wall and his desk, absolutely terrified. "N--no sir-- P-p-p-please just--spare my life--"

 

"It was a clever ruse. Well-prepared, down to the details. Someone switched the dental records, right from under my nose. Someone who had access to my credentials. Someone who knew how to utilize the flaw in the system. Someone who had tried it before."  _Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock_

 

"He made sure nothing could be picked up from the body for identification. Every clue, every piece of evidence would be the one he supplied, including the DNA sample. You see, I don't need to run the test, I know it will be a match. He knew I would have been suspicious but there would have been nothing I could have used against him. His plan was immaculate, except for the part where you're involved. The body is clean, but you are practically dripping with clues. That would be his only oversight. Pity."

 

Mycroft approaches the man in strides, reaching in to his suit pocket, relishing his horror-stricken features as he leans close and whispers, "Before you answer the following question, please be assured that your best bet at avoiding jail-time for fraud  _and_ twenty-year-long embezzlement is to get on my good side."

 

The smile fixed back on his face, he pulls away, patting the trembling man casually on his shoulder. On the desk, 'Jen' has spread out an old black-and-white newspaper clipping of Sherlock and John, standing side by side after receiving the diamond cufflinks Sherlock never got around to wear (because all of his cuffs had  _buttons_ ).

 

"The man who gave you the body and told you to report it as Sherlock Holmes, do you see him there?"

 

The attendant stumbles forward and braces himself on the table with two wobbly hands, lowering his head to look at the faces more closely.

 

"T--t-the blond man here," he squeaks out pitifully, "He's the one."

 

  
XXX 

 

 

 _FOOTAGE #354 Sitting Room_ _CAM_ _002 CH04_

_(28/03/2013 02:06 AM)_

 

_John enters the flat, dragging a large suitcase in to Sherlock's room._

 

 

XXX

 

  
 _FOOTAGE #357 Sherlock's Room_ _CAM_ _011 CH03_

_(28/03/2013 02:07 AM)_

 

_John dumps the suitcase on the floor, pausing to catch his breath. He takes off his gloves, his scarf and his coat, then closes the door. The room is pitch black now._

 

 

XXX

 

 

 _FOOTAGE #357 Sherlock's Room_ _CAM_ _011 CH03 NIGHT MODE_

_(28/03/2013 02:10 AM)_

_John is nowhere to be seen. The suitcase lays open on the floor. It is empty._

 

 

XXX

 

 

It is the third time Mycroft drives up to the crime scene. He hasn't rolled down his window yet. The police cars are starting to disperse, leaving the scene (typical house-breaking, the part-time gardener did it) one by one. He still has time. Lestrade is usually one of the last ones to leave.

 

Mycroft glances at his pocket watch, then looks out the window again. Two cars left, one of them is Lestrade's. He has to decide now.

 

His phone chimes. A text message from 'Jen'.

 

_JW IS IN POSITION._

 

He slips his blackberry back in to his pocket, sighing quietly. When he glances back outside, Lestrade is standing in front of the house, talking to his new sergeant. The other car has left.

 

"Baker Street, sir?"

 

Mycroft nods.

 

As the car starts moving, he throws one last glance at Lestrade's direction. The Inspector is now approaching his own car, keys in hand.

 

"Not going to pick up the good officer, sir?" asks his driver attentively.

 

Mycroft leans back, closes his eyes and ignores him.

 

XXX

 

Mycroft steps out of the car, umbrella first. His black three-piece suit is immaculate, his expression is controlled, his hands are steady. The amount of preparations he has gone through for this moment is laughably copious. It's the North Korea crisis all over again. The sweaty palms, the unpleasant grip of uncertainty, the overwhelming dread of a high-stakes gambling. There would be no backup plan to fall on to. There is no way but forward. There is no alternative but to win.

 

The sky is dark and gloomy, the wind is picking up speed. It has started to drip. Mycroft takes it as an invitation. He rings the doorbell.

 

"Mycroft! Come on in. Oh dear, I think a storm is coming."

 

_A storm is coming alright, Mrs. Hudson._

 

In the end, it wouldn't matter whether his little brother really resides inside his flatmate's body or not, no. Mycroft refuses to even give the notion a chance. John Watson has attempted to manipulate him. He is going to tell his story, unveil his reasons. Then he is going to  _pay_.

 

"Here to see John? He's upstairs, you can go ahead, I'll bring up some tea later."

 

John doesn't have enough resources to pull it off, both intellectually and financially. He shouldn't have been able to. There is someone behind his back, someone clever, powerful and  _brilliant_. Mycroft will wrangle the name out of him if it is the last thing he's going to do.

 

"That won't be necessary, Mrs. Hudson. I'm not staying for long."

 

John has military training, and Sherlock's training as well. It will not be easy to detain him, but Mycroft has a special troop with MI6 training behind him. If anything, John will be outnumbered. He will be placed in a secure facility, where a team of specialists will crack his enigma, bringing reasons to his conundrum.

 

"In this storm? Don't be silly, dear! You are Sherlock's brother, I can't possibly chase you out in this weather! You should stay for a while, at least until the sky clears up."

 

_Sherlock._

 

It feels like he's just been hit with a barrage of bricks. He remembers why he hasn't attempted this approach at the first place. Sherlock will never forgive him for this. It wouldn't matter whether his brother is still alive or not. If he lays a finger on John Watson, he will lose Sherlock all the same. In the end, family is all that he's got, and he almost loses it all.

 

As if on cue, a violin solo starts playing upstairs. Bach's Sonata no. 1 in G.

 

 _John Watson has never touched a violin in his life,_  his mind helpfully supplies.

 

Ignoring Mrs. Hudson's frantic calls, Mycroft turns around and leaves. The music halts abruptly as he closes the door behind him.

 

XXX

 

 

_SIR, PLEASE HEAD STRAIGHT HOME. CODE RED._

Mycroft turns his phone off and stays inside the unmoving car for two hours.

 

 

XXX

 

 

'Helen' is standing near the front gate, blackberry tucked in her coat pocket. That alone should have said something about the urgency of her earlier message. The car stops and she climbs inside, not a strand of hair out of place despite the rather vicious wind blowing outside.

  
"Sir, the younger Mister Holmes is here." She says, not as carefully as Mycroft would have preferred.

 

"Where is he?" Mycroft asks, not as composedly as he would have preferred.

 

 

XXX

 

 

"Really, Mycroft? Kidnapping and assault? Did you teach your goons _nothing_ about manners?"

 

For a moment Mycroft just stands by the door, gripping the handle of his umbrella tightly. Sherlock has always signified a lot of things in his mind. Right now he _is_ brilliant, obstinate, petulant, arrogant, sitting on an armchair inside his childhood bedroom with tousled red hair, guarded by six trained combatant officers, and _alive_.

 

"As far as I'm concerned, they are just escorting you home." He smoothly countered with a lopsided smile before settling down on the opposite chair, umbrella tucked away to the side.

 

"They put a bag over my head and dragged me away in front of _hundreds_ of people," hisses his brother sullenly, "You think I put on this asinine getup for laughs? I wear it because I don't want to attract attention!"

 

"Now don't be too cross, _brother dear._ Surely you have taken the risk of such treatment into account upon deciding to return to London." Mycroft leans back on his chair, crossing his legs, ignoring the thrums in his chest that wouldn't shut up about his brother being _alive_.

 

"You are here for Sebastian Moran, I presume."

 

"I am here because _John_ is being dull by putting himself at risk," Sherlock drawled out with great repugnance. "I would have taken care of Moran eventually, but he deliberately taunted him and made himself a target to the rest of the organization. Half of them must have occupied Baker Street already, preparing for a _coup de main_."

 

Mycroft arcs an eyebrow, "Taunted him, how?"

 

"I don't know. It doesn't matter. He must have done something, I know he did. Moran had been laying low for a few years after murdering the author. He knew he made a mistake by committing a personal killing. He had no reason to move back to London to get shot by an ex-army doctor. Implausible."

 

Mycroft clutches the armrest just a little tighter. His first instinct was right. John did aim for Sebastian Moran. Although the sniper did come to the clinic, it didn't necessarily mean that Moran taunted John. It was the other way around. John must have done something to draw his attention, as the man has been acting suspicious for several weeks with his random disappearances from the flat.

 

"You need to bug the flat, if you haven't already." Sherlock suddenly says, "Also security details. You've got too many lying around here with nothing better to do anyway."

 

"I shall see to it," Mycroft agrees, sighing quietly, "On one condition."

 

"Fine, I'll stay here temporarily. Whatever. It's too risky after the stunt your goons pulled at the airport anyway." Sherlock pulls his legs up and cradles his knees petulantly. "But I refuse to be confined here. Let me in the control room. I need to see Jo--the flat."

 

Mycroft rolls his eyes. "There is no control room, this is not a government-funded residence. I'll arrange for a laptop to be delivered here in a few minutes."

 

"And some respectable clothes." Sherlock adds, "And some _Herbatint_."

 

Mycroft looks vaguely surprised.

 

"I take it that you're ready to come back from the death then?"

 

Sherlock lets out a long-suffering sigh.

 

"I'm never dead, Mycroft. I'd rather you get used to the concept as soon as possible."

 

 

XXX

 


	3. Hour of the Boar

 

Sherlock steps out of the shower, stopping at his reflection in the mirror. His hair has been dyed back to its natural colour and cut to its regular length. For the first time in two years, he starts to feel like himself again. No more hiding behind charades and disguises, no more fake accents, no more made-up back-story for every new identity.

 

He takes a deep breath and reaches for the dressing gown before walking out of the bathroom.

 

XXX

 

The fact that to most people he has been dead for more than two years doesn't really strike Sherlock until he sees how Lestrade's face swiftly lose colour the moment the inspector opened the office door to find him sitting behind the desk, legs propped on the table, crafting defective paper planes out of Anderson's forensic reports.

 

"To answer your inner monologue, yes, I'm alive, you are not imagining things. This isn't a dream. I am real. A bit not good, I know," he starts after observing that Lestrade's short-circuited brain isn't going to come up with a response anytime soon. "Look, there's something I'd like to ask you about Joh--"

 

XXX

 

Sherlock growls under his breath as he presses the cold compress on his swollen cheek. Lestrade re-enters the room a moment later with a cup of coffee (for himself), looking warily behind his back to make sure that no one sees the supposedly dead man sulking in his office.

 

"Was that even necessary?"

 

"You're lucky that's all I'm settling for," Lestrade shoots back ardently, "A week of pain at most. We mourned for you for months, and in John's case, for years! On your death anniversary, John and I would stay in front of your grave for hours, talking to---who the hell was buried there anyway? Some poor homeless sod your almighty brother snatched off the street?"

 

He looks away and cringes at the accusation. Of course everyone would assume that Mycroft assisted him with his trick. He has expected it, but it doesn't make it any less annoying.

 

"I'd rather not talk about that right now. I need to ask you something about John---"

 

Lestrade's expression morphs from anger to concern in a second, his hand with the plastic cup of bad coffee pauses mid-air like he momentarily forgets what he is supposed to do with it.

 

"What about John? Have you seen him recently?" asks the inspector, brows knitted.

 

"Mycroft led me to believe that the surveillance footage I had been observing was a live feed of 221b, while it was in fact, doctored to make it look as such." Sherlock deadpans, putting the compress down and pressing his fingers on the cheek, testing its soreness. "The old linen tablecloth Mrs. Hudson adorned the kitchen table with, it had a small stain from when the boring teacher had spilled some wine on it---"

 

"Jeanette?"

 

"Jenny, Janet, whatever, small, irrelevant details. Do keep up, Lestrade. The point is, there are two cameras in the kitchen, one positioned above the dish rack, and the other is hidden above the fridge, both pointing at the same table. They should be displaying the same object, only from different angles, yes? The stain was positioned differently on both channels. I suspect they came from old videos, recorded on different times, merged together to give the illusion of one ceaseless live recording. I'd give them credit for trying really hard to maintain the ruse, except that they failed and it made them undeserving incompetent fools."

 

Lestrade tilts his head in confusion. Sherlock rolls his eyes.

 

"In short, Mycroft made up a fake recording to hide something that is happening in 221b and I need you to tell me what it is."

 

"No, wait a second. Are you still on the run?"

 

Sherlock pressed his lips together. He doesn't really want to talk about the reason why he had to fake his death, not right now. He didn't even want to see Lestrade, but he needed someone he could trust. His brother is concealing something from him, and at the moment Lestrade is the only person who could fill him in about what happened during his absence (he tried Molly, but she only had the vaguest idea about what's happening).

 

"To answer your question, yes, I still need to hide myself, that's why I can't go back to Baker Street yet. If someone identifies me, my safety won't be the only one at risk. That's why I need you to stop asking questions for now and just fill me in."

 

Lestrade looks taken aback at the request. "But Sherlock--"

 

"I think John is in danger. I tried texting and calling him but he is not picking up his phone. I need to move fast, but I can't, not with insufficient data. Just--" He throws his hands in the air, making small aggravated noises to convey his frustration. "Please. C-could you please help me."

 

XXX

 

"When were you going to tell me?"

 

A rustle of newspaper. "Is it about Moran? As soon as I finish with the article."

 

"That John has been missing for the two weeks. Precisely after your timely visit at 221b, the day your glorified secretary  _procured_  me from the airport."

 

Mycroft finally looks up. His expression barely changes at the handgun pointed at his face. The Iceman indeed. 

 

"You think I have him. You couldn't be more wrong."

 

"I saw your logbook. Your best men checked out together at the same time that day, they went out as a team," Sherlock narrows his eyes, clutching the gun carefully with steady hands. "A mission that requires so many combat specialists within London area... they must have been out against the very best man. I know for sure it's not me, because they clocked out before I arrived. It was someone who could grapple with your nerves of steel. Another man with such nerves."

 

Mycroft lets out a defeated sigh, leaning back against his chair. "You have talked to Lestrade."

 

Sherlock doesn't answer. It isn't a question.

 

"Then you've been informed of Doctor Watson's condition."

 

"Is that what you were going to do with him? Trap him in a facility, have some incompetent blockheads prod his brain with a stick and hope it will fix his 'condition'?" There is no disguising the utter disgust in his voice. None of them will be able to do it. Useless, the lot of them, just like John's old therapist. "Why would you care anyway? You wouldn't have gone so far if you hadn't felt threatened." He tilts his head, quirking an eyebrow. "Did you started to inhibit his delusions as well? Did you see me where you shouldn't have?"

 

"Sebastian Moran escaped from police custody this morning, killing five officers and injuring seven others in the process. He wouldn't have pulled it without assistance." Mycroft calmly diverts, folding the latest issue of The Sun (written on the front page: 'DEADEYE ON THE LOOSE') before piling it on the top of the rest of the newspapers on the table. "I am giving you one last chance to put the gun away and spare you the indignity of being tackled to the ground like a criminal."

 

Sherlock throws his brother one last petulant glare before lowering his gun. He detected the presence of the three bulky men in black suit long before Mycroft haughtily announced it anyway.

 

"You are suggesting that John assisted the escape of the very man he risked his life to capture. That's just illogical."

 

"He did it, aside from the fact that there is a good chance that he didn't get any say in the incident at all."

 

"Just get to the point!"

 

Mycroft leans forward, resting his elbows on the table with his hands clasped together, pressed against his chin. Sherlock could see that whatever he is about to say is something that, given a choice, he wouldn't have said it at all.

 

"Detaining Doctor Watson might have been my intent that day. It was most unfortunate I couldn't bring myself to do it. Given the present circumstances, it would have been the best solution."

 

Mycroft's face hardens as he holds his gaze. "Right now, John Watson is the most dangerous man in London. In my best judgement, it is imperative that two of you don't meet."

 

XXX

 

John. The most dangerous man in London.  _His_  John. Sherlock has never heard something so utterly ridiculous in his life.

 

It isn't that John is this harmless little man his attire always seems to exude, but to say that he is the  _most_   _dangerous_  man would imply that he is a dent in the society, something that should be avoided when possible. John is a doctor, a soldier, strong, resilient, caring, considerate and respectable. He might be a little bit broken right now and it might be Sherlock's fault, but that's just more the reason why they have to see each other right now, so he could fix him.

 

It isn't enough that John has gone missing, he will eventually have to deal with the 'ghost' issue as well. John saw his ghost. Lestrade saw his ghost.  _Mycroft_  possibly saw his ghost. Why would they? Discounting the fact that ghosts obviously don't exist, he has been alive all the time. Was it hallucinogen? Another  _Dartmoor_? Who could have done it? What for? How?

 

" _Sherl--I mean, Sigerson, are you there?"_  Lestrade's voice suddenly rings from his earpiece, dissipating his thoughts momentarily.

 

"Yes, are you in?" Sherlock sits up straight, observing his surroundings outside the car. The windows are tinted, but it always pays to be careful. Especially when the car is parked this close to Baker Street.

 

" _Yeah, Mrs. Hudson just left to make some tea. I told her I'd see her downstairs later. Where do you need me?"_

 

"Inside my room. Get inside and tell me what you see."

 

" _Alright._ " Footsteps, door creaking, Lestrade coughing a little and clearing his throat, door closing. He is in. " _Bed is made._   _Suitcase in the middle of the room, open and empty."_

 

"Size? Colour?"

 

 _"The large one. About 30 inches in height. Dark blue."_ A rustle.  _"There're traces of dried soil inside and around it."_ Which means that whatever was put inside the suitcase was spattered in wet soil at some point. It doesn't seem relevant to John's disappearance for now so he'll just keep the data for later.

 

"Get out of the room."

 

_"What? Is that all?"_

 

"Obviously it hasn't been occupied long before John went missing. The dust build-up was enough to make you cough. There won't be any clues there, at least not the ones relevant to John's disappearance. Get out and tell me about the sitting room."

 

_"I think Mrs. Hudson cleaned this place up already. Should I ask her if she moved or took something?"_

"Redundant. She knows better than that. Tell me what you see."

 

_"Okay... everything is back in place. It's like you never left at all."_

 

"You're looking at it wrong then. Don't just sweep your eyes across the place sketchily. Try to find the differences. Something that isn't quite in place. You are a detective inspector, for God's sake."

 

 _"Right... I'll let that slide because you said 'please' earlier, twice. Now, just a second."_  A long pause.  _"There's something I haven't seen before... next to your 'friend', on the mantelpiece."_

 

"I sincerely hope that you meant the skull, not John." Sherlock deadpans.

 

_"Yeah... it's some sort of stone pendant, I think? With someone's head carved on it."_

 

Sherlock perks up immediately. "Is it a cameo?"

 

_"I guess so."_

 

"What are you waiting for then? Get down!"

 

_"Get down--why?"_

 

"Throw yourself down to the floor! Quick!"

 

Judging from the loud thumping noises, Lestrade seems to have taken the instruction quite literally and painfully. Another rustling noise, a murmured curse.

 

_"Now what?!"_

 

"Don't get up. Just keep your head low and look around, do you see something?"

 

_"Bloody hell, Sher--Sigerson! I thought someone was going to shoot me or something!"_

 

Sherlock sighs, "I thought you'd be delighted to know that I wouldn't be the one to listen to your last words. It would probably be so dull and predictable I'd forget it in an instant. Just do as I said, we're almost done."

 

 _"Fine!"_  Another long pause.

 

"Are you done?"

 

_"I am crawling on my elbows. I want to be done, you twat. I just haven't found what I'm supposed to see."_

 

"Fine. Keep looking."

 

More rustling sounds. Then suddenly it stops.

 

"What happened? Did you see it?"

 

_"Nope, not yet. I'm resting."_

 

Sherlock rolls his eyes. It would have been a lot easier if Lestrade could bring a laptop and work out the webcam.

 

_"You know when you said about last words... I remembered something John told me. About your last words."_

 

Sherlock could feel his heart skip a beat as dread starts to seep inside his mind. One of his worst fears is to come back only to find John refusing to have him back in his life. He hasn't really given it a lot of thoughts before, but after learning about John's worsening depression, he has come to realize how big of an impact his death has effected on John's life. He knew John was going to feel miserable and dejected, but he didn't expect it to last for more than a couple of years. He fully expected, and even wished for John to build a new life and start over with a nice beautiful woman, now that he had a chance of a proper relationship without his flatmate texting him about dead bodies in the middle of his dates. When he came back only to find John unable to let him go to the point of conjuring the illusion of his ghost... let's just say that it made him feel a little broken inside. What would John say when they meet? John, who has spent the last two years living with his 'ghost'. What would have become of them? Could they ever be the same again?

 

_"There was something John wanted to say, when you were about to jump. He told his therapist about it too, but when she asked him to say it during one of their sessions, he still couldn't say it."_

_"This whole time, he has been regretting not being able to say it to you. He honestly thought that it could have saved your life, what he was about to say."_

 

Sherlock takes in a deep breath, trying to regulate his quickening heartbeat.

 

_"Sigerson, you still there?"_

 

He closes his eyes, leaning against the backseat. He couldn't let the sentiment rule his head. Especially not now. He has to stop thinking about it. Tuck it away to the back of the mind palace.

 

_"Sigerson?"_

 

"Yes, I am still here," His voice comes out a little hoarse, but probably not too noticeable through the microphone. "Have you found it?"

 

_"I think I just saw something under the sofa. I tried to grab it but my hand couldn't fit through the gap. Is it okay to get up now? I'll just move it away."_

 

"Alright. Be careful. Don't touch it until you're absolutely sure it is safe."

 

Lestrade doesn't reply, but Sherlock can hear the dragging noises he makes.

 

_"Got it. It's a plaid beret. Beige in colour. Think John owns one of these? Whoops--"_

 

"What happened? Did you touch it just now?"

 

_"There's a phone under the hat. I could be wrong but I think it is the same pink phone from the serial suicide case three years ago. Jennifer Wilson's phone."_

 

The pink phone. Plaid beret. Jefferson Hope. Lauriston Gardens.  _John._

 

Sherlock couldn't hold his smile back as a rush of adrenaline surges through his veins. "We're done here. Skip the tea, we're going to Brixton."

 

XXX

 

Three hours and forty minutes later, Sherlock finds himself back at number 3, Lauriston Gardens. The house still looks as ominous as it was three years ago, moreso without the police cars and journalist vans parked on the front side. Lestrade climbs out of the car and stays on the side, looking up at the abandoned house with unveiled apprehension. So far Sherlock can't see any signs of someone living inside the house, but it is the only clue. Following it through is surely the only way to come up with the next one.

 

"Stay here, I won't be long," he says without looking back at the bewildered inspector.

 

"No, look, Sherlock, just a second," Lestrade grabs his arm before he could get away. "Who are we meeting here, exactly? Who left the clue? If it is going to be dangerous, I'll call for a backup, then we can go in together with the others."

 

Sherlock turns to glare at him impatiently. Now he remembers why he always worked alone before John came along. " _Vatican cameos_. It is a secret code between John and I. I made it up in case of a dire situation in which one of us needs the other to duck out of the way without alerting our assailants. Following the logic, the cameo you found on the mantelpiece would mean that the clue can be found if you lower yourself to the ground. Which you did follow, resulting in the discovery of our next clue, the killer cabbie's beret and the pink phone."

 

"So John left you the clue?" Lestrade asks. "No one else was supposed to know about the secret code, right?"

 

Irene Adler knows. But she had no business planting the clue there.

 

"Yes. Either I come in and find nothing but an empty house, or I find John and convince him to come home with me, or I find the next clue he left about his whereabouts. You should stay here so you can alert me if someone comes in. I'll take the earpiece and the microphone with me, but I will probably be too busy to speak to you at all times so don't call me unless it is absolutely necessary. Would that be agreeable?"

 

XXX

 

In the end it wouldn't have mattered whether Lestrade found the settlement agreeable or not, Sherlock had made up his mind to come in to the house alone. There is a good chance that he would find John there, and what he plans to tell him, he intends to keep it between the two of them. He turns the microphone off.

 

"John, I'm here," he calls out after closing the front door behind him. No one answers.

 

"I'm sorry for leaving you alone, John. I had to. I knew you'd understand, once I got the chance to explain everything to you and apologize." He continues, while keeping himself alert of all kinds of noises around him. "John, let's go home. I will explain everything to you. Only to you."

 

After waiting for a moment and hearing no response, Sherlock starts walking. He tried the switch earlier to find that there was no electricity. He reaches inside his coat pocket to pull out a small flashlight and turns it on before opening the door to the first room.

 

The first room on the ground floor is mostly bare, except for some cardboards and worn plastic coverings. Sherlock checks the walls, in case there is some sort of secret room hidden behind it. He couldn't find any.

 

Closing the door to the first room, Sherlock aims his flashlight to the stairs. For a split second, he sees someone in a pink coat standing in front of the second room, but when he turns the light back to the door, he can't see the figure anymore. Just a worn old door with chipped paint. He can't hear any movements, probably just a shadow.

 

He starts climbing the stairs, keeping the light two steps ahead of him at all times, treading carefully in case the stairs are too brittle and collapse under his feet. He sighs in relief as he reaches the second room.

 

The second room has an old bed and a small cabinet. The window is open, from which the cold night wind blows inside and curls itself up on the back of Sherlock's neck. Ignoring the shiver, he continues to inspect the room for any presence. The bed looks like it hasn't been slept on for decades, the cabinet is empty. He could see some questionable dark spots on the carpet at the corner of the room, but they don't seem recent. Probably irrelevant.

 

The next room upstairs is the room where Jennifer Wilson was found. There is a good chance that he can find a clue there. Just as Sherlock closes the door to the second room, he can hear some noises coming from downstairs. He peers down from the railings and inspects the area with his flashlight. He can't see anything or anyone. He turns the microphone back on.

 

"Lestrade," he calls. "Did someone just come in here?"

 

_"No, no one came. Are you done? Do you need some assistance?"_

 

"No, it's all fine. Won't be long now. Stay there." He turns the microphone off with a sigh, turning back to the third room and climbing upstairs.

 

Sherlock is standing in front of the door, touching the doorknob carefully with gloved hand when he hears a noise from inside the room.

 

He freezes, holding his breath. Another noise. It sounds like someone is moving about inside the room.

 

"John?" He tries, knocking on the door. "John, are you there?"

 

The noises stop. Whoever inside the room seems to be holding his breath as well.

 

Sherlock turns the doorknob carefully, directing the light in to the room. He can't see anything but walls with peeled wallpapers.

 

"John, I'm coming inside. Please don't be alarmed. You have to trust me."

 

Sherlock opens the door carefully, moving the flashlight around to catch a glimpse of his best friend. The room is bare, there doesn't seem to be any place to hide. There is no window, so there is nowhere to escape out to either. He definitely heard someone inside the room earlier, whoever it was, it was still inside the room.

 

He checks behind the door first before dragging the light to the side, tracing the corners of the room. As he reaches the middle of the room, the light catches the sight of a pair of legs with pink heels. Sherlock drops his flashlight, his breath caught in his throat.

 

Impossible. Improbable. Jennifer Wilson's body has long been removed from the premise.

 

Clenching his jaw, he crouches down to retrieve the flashlight. Closer to the ground, now he can hear the faint sounds of someone's breathings, just a couple of feet away from him.

 

He should remain calm. It could be nothing, it is probably nothing. Just his mind playing a trick on him. The story about the ghost must have somewhat affected his thought process. He can't let it affect him anymore than it already has.

 

As he finally gets hold back of the flashlight, he quickly aims it to the general direction of the feet he just saw. 

 

The feet are still there. Except that they are nothing like Jennifer Wilson's feet at all. He moves the light to reveal a male body, lying face-down on the ground like a parody of the pink lady's body that was found in the exact same position three years ago.

 

"John!" He quickly recognizes the figure, rushes to his side and pulls the body on to his lap.

 

"John! Are you alright?!"

 

John is clearly not alright. While he is still breathing, his clothes are tattered, his cheeks are hollow and there are numerous superficial scratches all over his skin (nail scratches, Sherlock notes with horror. His own nails.)

 

"John, please talk to me!"

 

John furrows his brows, eyes still clenched closed, like he is having a nightmare.

 

"John, it's me. I'm going to take you to the hospital, you'll be alright, you hear me?"

 

That seems to get John's attention. The doctor opens his eyes slowly, blinking a few times before finally focusing his sight on Sherlock.

 

"S-s-Sherlock--" He sputters. "Sherlock, thank God. I was--I didn't know what to do. You have to--"

 

"We can talk later, John. I need to call Lestrade, he is waiting outside right now. I'll ask him to call an ambulance." Sherlock reaches for his microphone.

 

"No! No, I'm fine! You have to listen to me! I don't know when  _he_  will take over again, so you need to listen now, okay?" John looks absolutely terrified, clutching the front of Sherlock's shirt. "It's Moriarty, Sherlock. He used your appearance to deceive me. I thought I was letting you in but I was wrong. It's Moriarty, he takes over my body to--"

 

John's face suddenly turns vacant, his grip slackens for half a second before it weaves itself around Sherlock's neck and  _clenches_. Sherlock's eyes widen. It takes him another second to realize that  _John is strangling him._  With his vacant eyes and slackened jaw, John's right hand continues to push against his windpipe, crushing his neck.

 

"J--j--j-j-Joh--n--" He heaves, clutching on the iron grip around his neck. "Don't---John---"

His vision starts to blur when he hears the door being slammed open, someone frantically calling his name, and then suddenly he can breathe again.

 

XXX

 

John keeps his head down and refuses to speak during the duration of their trip back to Baker Street. Lestrade is driving, but he keeps darting worried glances to the backseat through the mirror. Sherlock watches John's hand, persistently and obsessively, wondering what John would do if he just had enough courage to close the distance and just... No. Not now. They will talk first, and then... maybe...

 

A little past midnight, they finally arrived. Sherlock has expected Mrs. Hudson to fuss over him a little when they meet, but instead she looks at him with concerned wide eyes and tells him that his brother is waiting for him upstairs. He bends down to give her a long hug and a soft kiss on the cheek before turning to John and Lestrade, gesturing them to wait in Mrs. Hudson's place and tend to John's wounds.

 

Mycroft is sitting stiffly on the armchair, his expression tense. He doesn't speak as Sherlock enters the flat and proceeds to prepare some tea. He knows exactly how Mycroft takes his tea, when he takes it at all (Mycroft has always preferred coffee). For several minutes, the only sound in the room is the kettle boiling and clinking tea ware.

 

"When you said that John was the most dangerous man in London," Sherlock starts as he puts down the tray on the low table, picking up his own cup and settling down on the armchair. His armchair. "You were talking about Moriarty."

 

Mycroft doesn't move to take his cup, eyes narrowed in disdain.

 

"You actually believed that Moriarty... what, possessed John? Took over his body?"

 

"I have acrimoniously come to that conclusion, yes."

 

Sherlock starts to laugh. "I can't believe it. Coming from Lestrade, I can understand, but for  _you_  to believe in such illogical---"

 

"Be that as it may," Mycroft cuts, lips tight. "There are some things in this world that not even  _I_ , could explain."

 

"The options are not yet exhausted." Sherlock puts down his half-empty cup, looking up to glare at his brother. "There are still some perfectly logical explanations to justify the symptoms. Psychologically speaking, John hasn't exactly been the finest specimen." He pauses to clear his throat. "I don't want him to go through unnecessary treatments. I will talk to him and determine the course from the there. I will not have him shipped away to be experimented on in some secret locked government facility."

 

Mycroft purses his lips, sighing quietly to himself before leaning forward on the chair, looking up at him with sharp grey eyes.

 

"You were wondering why I cared. Why I would have gone so far as to preparing to detain him." His voice is even. "To answer your question, no, Sherlock. I did not see your ghost. At least not in the same way Lestrade and John did."

 

"A ghost would have been fine. A ghost is a ghost, a remainder of the loss of flesh. In fact, if I had seen you the way Lestrade did, it probably wouldn't have scared me. Because it would still be you, and I  _adored_  you. I still do."

 

Sherlock finds himself caught off guard by the words, laced heavily with sentiment.

 

"When I see John, I see Jim Moriarty. I saw it before his mask came undone, I still see it now. I see a man who wants to hurt, who  _loves_  to hurt. Who would hurt  _you_."

 

"Whatever it is inside John Watson's mind, whether it is Moriarty's ghost or a psychosis, it wants to hurt you." Mycroft rises and walks over to stand in front of his brother. Sherlock lightly flinches as the older man smoothly brings a hand up to cup his chin, while the other hand pulls the scarf down to reveal the strangling mark on his neck. The one he has been trying to conceal. "It already did."

 

Sherlock returns his gaze, unyielding. "I won't let you take John away. Especially not now."

 

"Because what matters to me is that he doesn't get to hurt you. I don't necessarily need him healed." Mycroft agrees easily, leaning back on his chair, lacing his fingers. "Easier on the government expense to just get rid of the body."

 

Sherlock doesn't deign that with a response.

 

"Finish your tea and leave."

 

XXX

 

When Sherlock walks out of his room, having stowed his coat, scarf and gloves away, John is standing in front of mantelpiece, motionless and eerily quiet.

 

"John?" He tries, approaching his friend slowly not to alert him. "You should get some sleep. We can talk tomorrow."

 

Lestrade has long left the flat, after making Sherlock promise on his grave (the real one) to give him a call in case something happens.

 

After a long pause, John finally turns to him, holding the cameo in his hand, his face unreadable.

 

"I haven't seen this before," he says, holding up the pendant. "Is this yours?"

 

Sherlock tenses, taking a step back involuntarily.

 

"John," he says. " _Vatican cameos_."

 

John promptly throws himself down on to the floor, covering his head with his hands.

 

Sherlock watches him guiltily, before quickly reaching out to help him stand back up. This is the real John. Of course he is. He knows about their secret code. But if this was John and this John didn't remember leaving the clue, it means that Moriarty did it. Does Moriarty know about the code? How?

 

"You're afraid of me," John lets out a self-deprecating laugh. "Understandable. I almost killed you."

 

"No, John."

 

John takes a deep breath, pressing his hand on his temple. "I--I really shouldn't be here. I'll just--"

 

"No, wait!" Sherlock grabs his arm as he tries to slip past the detective. "I am not afraid of you. I just wanted to make sure that it was really you."

 

"No, Sherlock. As you can see, right now I'm not in complete control of my body. I can't trust myself to be close to you."

 

"It will be more dangerous for you to stay outside unsupervised. You might unknowingly hurt someone else, or Mycroft will get to you first. Is that what you want?"

 

"I don't want to hurt anyone!" John yanks his arm free and turns to face him. "But if that's what going to happen anyway, I'd rather it not be you!"

 

"I won't let you hurt me. I'm strong, John. I can and I will do whatever it takes to protect myself."

 

"What about  _this,_ then?!"

 

John has caught him off-guard. He jerks back intending to dodge John's swing of hand and ends up stumbling on to John's armchair behind him. Before he can summon enough senses to get back up, he can hear something breaking from the other side of the room. Then suddenly John is hovering over him, carrying a large piece of broken mirror in one bloodied hand.

 

"John!" He gasps out. "Your hand--"

 

John ignores him and shoves the mirror in front of his face. "Look at that! That fresh mark of death, encircling your bloody neck! That's me! I put it there! Have you even seen it?!"

 

Sherlock sees a glimpse of angry red mark on his neck before grabbing John's injured hand, forcing him to drop the mirror and pulling the other man down until their chests are almost pressed together with John's head next to his.

 

"I won't have you hurt yourself again in my watch." He whispers low in John's ear, feeling the body recoil and shiver in his arms. "Just try it again, I dare you, John. Try it again and see what I'm going to do to you."

 

John's chuckle rumbles against his chest. "What, you are going to hurt me for hurting myself?"

 

"You think you know me. Two years is a long time to be apart, John, longer than the time we spent together. Even if I tell you my whole story, you still won't know the entirety of me. I doubt you ever will. Let's just say that there are some baleful additions in my bag of tricks that I'd rather not employ on your person unless it is absolutely necessary."

 

John finally raises his head to look at him, eyes wide with shock and fear. Sherlock uses the chance to push the smaller man away, rising to his feet, straightening up his suit.

 

"Fix yourself up, Doctor. You brought it upon yourself." He spits out before storming in to his room and slams the door closed.

 

XXX

 

Sherlock didn't intend to fall asleep. Even after being awake for more than 72-hours, he fully expected to be kept awake that night, livid. But apparently his anger quickly dissipated after he entered the room and focused on observing the open mystery in the middle of the room (the suitcase is new, aside from the soil he could find a few strands of grass inside the case. The scraped soil marks on the inner surface of the suitcase indicate that the object inside was a lot smaller than the case, it got dragged around as the suitcase was moved).

 

As he jerks awake, his first instinct is to find John. He jumps out of his bed, glancing out the window and noting that it is still dark outside. He hasn't drifted off for long, then. He remembered going to bed at around two in the morning.

 

"John!" He calls out as he opens the door. The sitting room still looks the same as it was when he left; the lights are on and the broken mirror lies unattended at the corner, except that John is nowhere to be seen.

 

"John!" He tries again, louder, as he climbs up the stairs then pushes the door to John's room open. It is empty, and it doesn't seem like John has entered the room at all.

 

Afterwards, he tries the bathroom, the toilet, the kitchen, downstairs at Mrs. Hudson's flat. He still can't find John.

 

Ignoring Mrs. Hudson's fretful questions, he stomps back upstairs to get his phone, dialling Lestrade's number with one hand as his head whips around, looking for something, anything, another clue about John's whereabouts. The cameo lies on the carpet, next to the fireplace where John has dropped it earlier.

 

XXX

 

"Where are we going?" Lestrade asks as Sherlock climbs to the passenger seat, eyes glued on his phone. His brother hasn't texted him back.

 

"Start the car. Look around the streets for clues. He can't be too far, it hasn't been long." He waves a hand in front of the inspector's face, typing furiously with the other hand.

 

"Right," Lestrade mutters, face tight with worry. The car starts moving.

 

"Lestrade,"

 

"Hmm?"

 

"Where do you think he's off to?"

 

The inspector looks surprised at the fact that Sherlock would even consider asking for his opinion. He wouldn't have felt so privileged if only he knows how desperate he feels at the moment. He was confident that he'd be able to find John near Baker Street, but they have gone around the block twice now and he still couldn't see any signs of John's presence.

 

"I wasn't here. I knew John, now I don't anymore. You have always been there for him. Where do you think he'd go?"

 

"I'm glad you asked, but to be honest, I have no clue." Lestrade sighs, narrowing his eyes at the street in front of them. "Aside from the way he suddenly started emulating you, he hasn't changed all that much."

 

Sherlock presses his lips together, huffing out a displeased sigh. His brother just texted to inform him that John left with a cab less than an hour ago. The cameras tracked him up to Nottingham St. How they managed to lose him in this non-existent traffic is beyond him.

 

"You know, Sherlock. Knowing you, you probably think that your death has caused John to behave like this," Sherlock turns to the Inspector, curious. "Well it might hold a factor in, but... John did get better, if only for a short while. Several months after you left, he met a nice, beautiful girl. He seemed completely besotted... I thought they would eventually end up together. Married, with two kids."

 

Sherlock frowns, pretending to be busy with his phone. He doesn't think he likes the image very much now, even though he was absolutely sure that it was going to happen at some point. And if it did, he would probably be happy for John. Or at least he'd want to.

 

"I guess what I'm trying to say is... if it's true, that Moriarty now resides inside him... It's all on him, you know. Don't blame yourself too much." Lestrade finishes with a sniff (tired, lacking sleep, worried, a little bit under the weather... and he is still trying to comfort him). He was too distracted to consider it, but Lestrade's presence had really made things easier for him. He even saved his life earlier when John was--Lestrade saved his life. He looked after John when Sherlock couldn't. He probably kept Mrs. Hudson company too, they seemed a lot closer when they saw each other earlier. And now he willingly drives him around London despite looking like death warmed over.

 

"Lestrade," he starts. The inspector gives him a sideways glance. What is he supposed to say again?

 

"I'll never delete your name again."

 

No. Not that. The other one.

 

"Also, thank you."

 

There it is. 

 

Lestrade keeps his eyes on the street, smiling.

 

Sherlock's phone chimes. Probably noticing his stiffened expression as he reads it, Lestrade pulls over. Sherlock puts the phone away before he has a chance to ask.

 

"Drop me off at St. Barts."

 

"Why? Is John there?"

 

Sherlock purses his lips, weighing his options. Anyhow, he can't bring Lestrade with him. It's too dangerous.

 

"I'll see my brother there. He just texted me, said he had something he'd like to show me."

 

"I see," Lestrade starts the car again. "I suppose it is some sort of government secret, then? For your eyes only."

 

Sherlock stays silent for the rest of the drive.

 

XXX

 

Sherlock stops in front of the rooftop door, hand hovering above the doorknob. Two and a half years ago he stood in the exact same place, contemplating his death. It never even crossed his mind that he'd get to experience it  _twice._ Has he been a lesser person, perhaps the discomposure would have either killed him or forced him away.

 

"Sherlock, you there?" John's voice can be heard from the other side. Strangely, it didn't really sound like John anymore. "Come on, dear. I've been waiting."

 

Sherlock closes his eyes, bracing himself for a second before turning the knob. The door opens.

 

XXX

 

The rooftop is almost pitch black, there is still about one hour before sunrise. Sherlock pulls his flashlight out and turns it on. It takes him sometime before he spots the dark figure, standing on the edge of the building with his arms extended, facing away from him.

 

"Here we are again, Sherlock."

 

Sherlock turns off the flashlight and approaches him with steady steps. The light is just a little better over there with the full moon.

 

“The final problem... no, it has long passed, hasn't it? Just an old, outdated story," John lowers his arms and turns around to face him, smiling inauspiciously. "This is a new problem, Sherlock. Not so elegant, I'm afraid, but you can cut me some slack. I am dead, after all. That's a major handicap on my part."

 

"Well is it? You don't seem terribly inconvenienced." Sherlock replies, folding his hands behind his back.

 

John starts laughing. Loud and sinister.

 

"Well not now, certainly. You have only seen the better part of the story." 

 

Sherlock breathes a little easier as John steps down from the edge. He has hoped it wouldn't be too noticeable, but John apparently catches on.

 

"Even now you are still thinking that I am John Watson, aren't you?" says the doctor, looking terribly pleased. "This is just--just fantastic. Wonderful. Way better than I thought it would. You, Sherlock Holmes, are dancing to my tune, in the palm of my little hand right now."

 

Sherlock pressed his lips together, trying not to give away anymore than he has. John is now standing very close next to him, mimicking his hand gesture.

 

"What if I tell you... that John Watson no longer exists?"

 

"That would be telling a lie. Not a very good one by your standard."

 

"Ooh, you've got a deduction ready. I can smell it, ripe and ready," John steps away, holding up his hands with a large grin. "Let's hear it."

 

"When I found you, you tried to tell me about the possession. Then suddenly your face turned blank, and you started strangling me."

 

"Weeeellll, are you still upset? Sorry about that. Reflexes. No, maybe not. I was startled. I have never been held by such a dreamy man like you."

 

"Why would you apologize? We both know that it wasn't your doing." Sherlock remarks calmly, noting how the glee leave John's face in an instant. "It was you the entire time. The one who left the cameo inside the flat, the one who planted the beret and the pink phone, the one that I found Lauriston Gardens, the one we took back to Baker Street, the one who broke the mirror and pretended to be upset for hurting me... It's all you. Jim Moriarty."

 

"There is only one time, when John Watson managed to emerge and take over for a while. It was when you strangled me."

 

"Hmmmm..." John crosses his arms and nods lightly. "Interesting. So the only time Johnny-boy took over the body, instead of alerting you, he tried to kill you. Is that the best you can come up with?"

 

"John never intended to kill me. And he did try to alert me." Sherlock's hand starts to work on his scarf off, revealing the mark on his neck. "He strangled me with his right hand. John is left-handed. He intentionally used his less strong hand so I could break out of it easier. He knew you intended to use his body to manipulate me. He wanted me to be aware of the danger. He wanted me to stay away."

 

"That's why I know John is still in there somewhere. And there is still a chance for him to come back. He already did it once, and I will help him however I could so he can do it again and chase you out permanently."

  
For a moment, both men just stand there and stare at each other, unyielding. Then John suddenly jumps up to the edge of the rooftop again, stumbling over his feet but eventually manages to balance himself on the concrete.

 

“Whoops... that was close,” he wheezes out, chuckling to himself before turning to the white-faced Sherlock victoriously. “All the talking, talking and talking... I’m bored. Let’s play a game instead.”

 

Sherlock narrows his eyes dubiously as John starts beckoning him to come closer.

 

“Come on, you need to see this,” he says with a playful smile. “I promise you won’t be bored.”

 

Sherlock complies eventually, approaching him with careful treads. Soon enough, he can see what John is pointing at. Lestrade’s car, parked up front. He hasn’t immediately left as instructed. Sherlock feels a cold burn crawling in his stomach. Why, why now, Lestrade?

 

“You can’t see any red dot pointing there, but I have been reliably informed that a rather competent sniper is currently standing by somewhere close, ready to--“ John makes up a makeshift gun with his fingers, presses it on the side of his temple, and jerks his head to the side while making a gunshot noise.

 

“The drill is essentially the same... Moran doesn’t really need my say to shoot,” John lowers his voice just a little bit in to a mock-whisper. “Once he even shot when I told him not to. The man has always been a little deranged. I wouldn’t want to provoke him.”

 

“ANYWAY here’s the game. Moran will shoot the Inspector, _unless_ , he sees either one of us _jumps_.”

 

Sherlock remains quiet, his heart is racing. Moriarty is making him choose between his own life and John’s, and Lestrade’s.

 

“Oh, this is so much fun. Should have tried this on you two years ago.”

 

If he could just reach in to his pocket and text Lestrade—no, Moriarty will definitely see through it.

 

“You are making the most interesting facial expression right now. I don’t even know if it has a name.”

 

He can knock John out, pretend that he is about to jump while alerting Lestrade to hide inside one of the buildings. It is still dark, there is a good chance that Moran has very limited visibility. If he could pinpoint Moran’s hiding place, he would be able to inform Lestrade the best place to hide within his very limited timeframe before Moran manages to fire.

 

“Soooo? The decision would be...?”

 

“No,” Sherlock says firmly, inciting a frown from the other man. “I’m not choosing because you are bluffing. There is no Moran.”

 

John tilts his head. “How can you be so sure?”

 

“Moran is a fugitive. Upon escaping, the police would have been hunting him around London. There is no way he will risk staying in the city.” He hopes it sounds convincing enough.

 

“So you are not playing the game?” John’s expression turns grim.

 

“No,” Sherlock insists. “Not unless you can prove that Moran—“

 

“BOOOOOOOOOORINGGGGGGG!!!!!!!!!”

 

Sherlock is still reeling from the surprising turn of events when John suddenly reaches for something inside his ear and says, “Finish him.”

 

“NO!”

 

Sherlock climbs up the concrete structure hurriedly, watching with wide eyes as a red dot traces its way to the inside of car on the driver’s seat. A second later, he can see Lestrade’s limp form slumping to the side.

 

“Lestrade...” It feels like his strength was just sapped out of his body. He feels boneless. Helpless. “No... no... why...”

 

“Alas... poor good inspector never stood a chance between the two of you lovebirds...”

 

He doesn’t notice how close John is until he feels his breaths behind his neck. A pair of arms wrapped around him, for a brief moment he can pretend that John is there to comfort him.

 

“Here is the thing... Sherlock... After experiencing death, I... kind of value life more than I did before... I guess it is okay if life is boring sometimes. As long as you are alive, there is still a chance that a good thing might happen to you. To me. It’s just one of the things I’ve learned. To be more optimistic, less demanding.”

 

Sherlock closes his eyes as John leans forward to press a kiss on his cheek.

 

“Ooh, sweet, clever Sherlock Holmes... I’m going to miss you so bad... But I’m sure I’ll find someone new. Someone who is even cleverer than you. Someone on the side of the angels.”

 

The arms are gone now. Sherlock knows what’s coming next.

 

The push.

 

“Good bye, Sherlock.”

 

XXX 

 

TBC

 

 


	4. Hour of the Rat

"I'll have you know that John Watson is no longer the most dangerous man in London."

 

Sherlock's blood runs cold, hands involuntarily tightening on the hospital blanket. Mycroft places a laptop on his lap, a video is playing on the screen. It is showing John, chewing a gum and standing casually with both hands in his pockets at the entrance of Heathrow Airport, a heavy-looking duffel bag slung on his bad shoulder. He made no effort to stay hidden, wore minimal disguise and occasionally smiled to the cameras. John seemed very sure that none of the footage would reach Mycroft until after he was long gone. He was right.

 

"He was last seen boarding a plane to Hong Kong," Mycroft explains with great distaste, settling down on one of the uncomfortable visitor's chairs.

 

Sherlock doesn't bother asking what Mycroft has, or plan to do. The last thing he wants is having John at Mycroft's mercy and Mycroft knows it. They aren't going to work together, that goes unsaid.

 

"Go on, you can ask me," Mycroft leans back and drawls with fake nonchalance. "I know you're curious. How I broke your fall."

 

Sherlock remembers Moriarty pushing him. He remembers slipping down, trying to grasp on to something and coming up empty. He remembers closing his eyes. He remembers opening them again to find himself sprawled awkwardly on the ground. He remembers trying to stand up, testing his body, cataloguing his injuries (nasty bruises on his side, some scraped skin on his right palm, broken nails, sprained ankle, dull pain on his head and the back of his neck, ringing ears). He remembers feeling bloody fantastic for someone who is supposed to be haemorrhaging internally on the pavement. He remembers batting away and scowling at a flock of people in light green scrubs before blacking out. He remembers waking up wondering how Mycroft could have pulled it off. He still does. Even as he looks at the galling smug smile he still wants to know.

 

"Irrelevant," he says instead. "I know Lestrade is unharmed. That's enough."

 

Mycroft pointedly turns his head and raises an eyebrow at him. Sherlock suppresses a triumphant grin. His brother will now start obsessing about what has given the fact away. He won't find any. One of the chattering nurses let it slip during one of her rounds. Sherlock had been aware of his surroundings for approximately three hours before he opened his eyes and inadvertently triggered the chain alerts that had summoned Mycroft to the side of his bed.

 

"What about Moran?"

 

Mycroft's jaw goes taut.

 

"He is dead," Sherlock concludes grimly.

 

Any clues about Moriarty's methods and operations died with him. Moran was the right hand, the second in command, the executor, the queen. Everyone else is the pawn.

 

"I suppose the spider is back to the centre of the web now." Mycroft says conversationally, inspecting his perfectly clean nails. "Perhaps he has been there for quite some time."

 

That's why criminals from all over the world came to London. That's why Sebastian Moran came out of his hiding after years. Moran did come to the clinic, he came to talk to Moriarty, not John. The whole arrest was either set up or a screw up, most likely a set up, since Moriarty was the one who talked Lestrade into taking investigating Moran. Moriarty wanted to the publicity to smoke Sherlock out. Moriarty knew he would have been targeting Moran, would have risked coming back to London for Moran. Once again, Sherlock has come to dance for him.

 

"Mycroft," he says with finality in his tone. "Your meddling stops here."

 

Mycroft averts his eyes and smiles one of those infuriating ones which are reserved for when he thinks Sherlock is being puerile.

 

Two weeks later, Sherlock steps away from the ticket counter, pocketing his documents and adjusting his coat, facing away from the camera attached to one of the pillars.

 

The secret bilateral meeting to address the North Korea nuclear threat started forty minutes ago, which means that he has approximately two hours to board the plane and get out of Britain with minimum risk of being hassled. Later he will send three empty texts to Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and Molly before meticulously dismantling his phone beyond repair and disappear once again.

 

As much as he loves the city, Sherlock doesn't spare it another longing look before marching further inside the terminal. The last time he left, he wasn't sure if he'd ever be back, but right now it isn't a choice. When he comes back to London, it will be with John.

 

XXX

 

 

_Six months later_

 

Molly has been waiting for him for quite some time. The make up around her eyes is a bit smudged, her posture is slumped and her dress (new) has fold marks that indicate that she has been leaning on the pillar behind her. Sherlock takes a glance at his watch, it is a quarter past eight at night. He has arrived at the exact time he told her he would. Why would she come earlier than the promised time?

 

"Is something wrong?" He asks her.

 

She looks down and smiles, blushing slightly. "N-n-no, of course not. Is something wrong?"

 

He gives her another thorough look. She doesn't seem tense, or gives any indication being threatened.

 

"Never mind," he flashes her a small smile before turning around to hail a cab. He pauses as he catches the sight of Mycroft's PA, a dark-haired young man wearing meticulously-pressed 500-pound black suit, standing across them. He takes one brief look at the long queue for the cab before marching steadily at the man's direction.

 

The shift of the attendant's expression from exuberance to confusion to fear amuses Sherlock greatly as he tells him to convey his personal message for his brother about a new diet fad from Japan. Molly meekly follows him as he grabs his suitcase, turns around with a dramatic coat swirl and starts walking towards the queue for the taxi.

 

XXX

 

"So," As predicted, ten minutes into the ride, Molly starts to feel bothered by the silence and attempts a small talk. "Been busy?"

 

Sherlock sighs audibly.

 

"Sorry, I know you don't like spelling out the obvious." the girl lowers her eyes, smile fading.

 

"No," he quickly amends. "I was just thinking about..." A hesitant pause. Should he really be telling her about this? "I thought when I returned here, I would have had John with me. You saw me arriving alone. Obviously I've failed."

 

"Oh," Molly licks her lips nervously, averting her eyes. "I--I'm sorry, Sherlock. I heard about everything from the Inspector. It's just--"

 

She hesitates as Sherlock finally turns to her with calculating look. "It sounds quite... peculiar. A bit like... something you watch on the telly, I guess? Not that I watch a lot of shows like that... I--I don't like scary stories. The world is daunting enough without them."

 

Sherlock presses his lips together and turns to the side window, watching the glittering streets with narrowed eyes.

 

"Did you make it?" Her voice is small, with a touch of quiver in it. "You were gone six months and suddenly you told us you were coming back... It meant that you had accomplished whatever it was... that you had been doing...?"

 

"I suppose I did," he replies, slipping his impassive mask on. She doesn't need to know every little detail. She already is too observant when it comes to reading him. "In a way."

 

She nods and smiles, lowering her head. "Then it'll be all fine. It's good."

 

He throws him a brief smile before turning his eyes back to the streets, biting back scathing comments about how naive she is to think that his efforts alone could have ensured John's safety. There are about eighty-six ways things can go wrong before he even could get anywhere near the beginning of his plan. and it makes him incredibly tense right now.

 

"Thank you, Molly."

 

She turns to him with wide eyes, stunned, a flush gracing her already blush-on-touched cheeks.

 

"I never cared much about what people thought, but when Moriarty smeared my name and I saw a flicker of doubt in the eyes of everyone I knew... only then I realized that I took it for granted. It has always mattered to me. I was being ignorant." He lowers his eyes for a moment, before throwing her a sideway glance. "Thank you for believing in me."

 

For a moment she looks like she is going to burst from being overwhelmed with sentiments. Her eyes are glassy and her breathings quicken. Before he knows it, he has had an armful of forensic pathologist. He tenses for a few seconds, unsure what to do with his hands. Then Molly suddenly pulls back, scrambling for her handkerchief.

 

"Sorry! Sorry! I know it's not proper," she dabs her eyes (the make-up is officially ruined now) with the pink, lacy handkerchief. "I'm just... I'm glad you think of me... like that. I didn't think--never thought--"

 

Sherlock narrows his eyes, confused. He already told her she counted, already told her he needed her. He didn't think his words warranted such intense burst of emotions.

 

"A--anyway, I'm not the only one, you know." Molly says with an abashed grin as she dumps her handkerchief back in to her handbag and fishes out her phone. "Do you have a twitter account?"

 

XXX

 

"So it's still going on," Lestrade says nonchalantly as he looks at the phone screen. Sherlock installed a Twitter app on it and did a search with his name as the keyword. It yielded more than fifty-thousand hits.

 

"You knew about this," Sherlock shoots him a dubious look.

 

"A teenage daughter, Sherlock. You've seen my archaic phone. I only use it for texting and calling," the inspector sighs, taking a sip of his tea. "She knew I was working with you a lot. It'll please you to know that she's on the # _ibelieveinsherlockholmes_  side."

 

"Why would it please me?" He says whilst smiling to himself, scrolling for further tweets. " _You_  should be pleased. Your daughter is obviously very bright. She is showing great potentials."

 

"So she's intelligent because she thinks you're innocent. Clearly our education system is flawed." In spite of himself, Lestrade couldn't hide his delight at the praise.

 

Sherlock ignores him, scrunching his face at his phone. "Ugh I took it all back. Their spellings are atrocious."

 

"Oh don't be too hard to them. There is the 140-characters limit to mind." Molly returns with a batch of freshly-baked lemon custard biscuits from Mrs. Hudson. "More tea?"

 

Lestrade gestures her to sit down as he rises from his seat to take over the tea-serving. Sherlock snatches one of the biscuits and chews on it without looking up from his phone.

 

"So you've created a Twitter account?" Molly starts cheerily. "Perhaps you ask to be verified, you know. So people would know that you're the real Sherlock Holmes."

 

Sherlock hums an agreement absently. "Could be useful."

 

"No, wait, people think you're  _dead_ ," Lestrade protests, giving his appearance a sweeping look. "You don't even bother with fake name and disguises anymore. Someone must have recognized you."

 

"Not my problem right now."

 

"Not your---Sherlock, it's been three years and people are still arguing about you on the internet! Just last week I read an article speculating John's disappearance, it's on the front bloody page! I really think you should hide yourself better." The Inspector refutes. "Once they've found out about you, you'll have no peace, no privacy. People are going to demand explanations from you, things you can't reveal to the public. They're going to hunt you down like a hound until they get what they want!"

 

"On the contrary, Mycroft's assistant is preparing a speech as we speak."

 

"Speech? What for?"

 

"My press conference that is going to be held in," Sherlock glances at his watch. "Ten hours."

 

Molly unceremoniously drops her biscuit in to her cup. Lestrade opens his mouth, closes it again without saying a word, and in the end just settles on glaring daggers at him.

 

"You said that Moriarty would have killed John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson if you hadn't killed yourself," Molly sputters. "W-wouldn't it be dangerous for them if you reveal yourself to the public?"

 

"Whatever Moriarty said before isn't relevant anymore. Lestrade was supposed to be dead during our second confrontation, he didn't. He has been walking around looking rather lively for months now and Moriarty hasn't tried to pursue him. It means that the game has changed." Sherlock explains. "I can arrange a secure place for Mrs. Hudson to hide temporarily. Sure, she hit me over the head last time I brought that up six months ago, but I suppose I can try again." Lowering his voice, he adds, "I just have to make sure that she isn't holding any kitchen appliances this time."

 

Lestrade gapes. "She hit you over the head with wh---"

 

"As for John, at least his physical body, should be relatively safe." Sherlock finishes with only the slightest hitch of breath. Congratulating himself for the feat, he stands up and approaches the mantelpiece before walking back towards the table with a deerstalker hat he recently bought at the airport (the old one was misplaced during his absence.)

 

"If you must know, Moriarty has been ignoring me," he declares upon returning, settling the hat in the middle of the table, signifying his resolve to return under the spotlight. "I underestimated his ability to lay low, to hide himself while pulling the strings to make other people do his dirty work for him. After finding out that tracking him down was  I did everything I could to lure him out but-- it's like he didn't even see me."

 

 _"I'm going to miss you so bad... But I'm sure I'll find someone new._ "

 

_After the kiss, it feels like his brain is about to short-circuit, topsy-turvy. The stress of standing before the very scenery he saw when he almost died, Lestrade's unmoving body, Moriarty using John's appearances and voice to mess with his head. All he could think about is a way to end this. End this petty feud, stop the needless casualties._

 

"I said the game had changed but the truth is, right now I am the only one playing."

 

" _Someone who is even cleverer than you. Someone on the side of the angels._ "

_If he really wants to, he could turn the situation around. Moriarty is close, very close. Pressed against his back, shallow breaths caressing his cheek. He could spin his body around, could pull Moriarty's arm; at the very least they would have fallen together, ridding the world of one psychopathic murderer (John would approve). He doesn't have a lot of time, perhaps only one chance. It is a shot worth taking. He has got nothing to lose._

 

"This is my last resort."

 

_Moriarty's arms are still wound around his waist. He can easily hold it, Moriarty won't find it strange because he has always wanted to hold John's hand and Moriarty knows it. Otherwise Moriarty wouldn't have kidnapped John for the fifth pip. Wouldn't have exploited the knowledge with this parody of physical intimacy; doing things John would never even consider doing, things Sherlock could live without just as long as John stays by his side._

"If he is not going to start the game, then I will do it. I will make it so he will have no choice but to play along."

_Then he makes the mistake of giving his arch-nemesis one last look, only to find his best friend in his place. The one who stayed when everyone else moved on. The one who trusted when everyone else drifted away. His John. His anchor, his solace, the one he wants to come back home to. For once in his life, there_ is _something to lose._

_His hands fall back on his sides._

"I'm going to make him see me, whether he wants to or not."

 

_"Goodbye, Sherlock."_

 

XXX

 

Sherlock stands up from his armchair, straightening his impeccable suit. The manila folder containing the speech from Mycroft's PR Staff lay unopened on the coffee table. The buzzing noises from outside are deafening, irritating.

 

"Bloody hell!" Lestrade cusses loudly as he storms inside the flat with wild hair, tie skewed. "Sherlock, it is ten minutes past the promised time! You'd better get your arse out there before the traffic gets worse!"

 

"Why would they be here? I specifically informed them that it would be held at the New Scotland Yard."

 

Lestrade throws him one last exasperated look, holding the door open. Sherlock shrugs on his coat, knots his scarf, pausing only for half a second before grabbing the deerstalker hat.

 

XXX

 

Sherlock steps on the podium, both hands in his coat pockets, leans down to the microphone and looks up from behind his hat as he says the very first public statement he has ever made to the press.

 

"I loathe stating the obvious, but as you can see, I am alive."

 

In a few hours, the sentence makes the headline for every circulating newspaper in London. Someone is Mycroft's office is probably throwing their hands up, knowing that the speech has long been thrown out of the window now.

 

"Three years ago, James Moriarty, or if you prefer the alternative, Richard Brook, confronted me at the rooftop of St Barts Hospital, backed by three snipers. Each standing by to take the life of a person of significance to me." He continues as the sounds of clicking cameras subside. "My friend and associate Doctor John Watson is one of them."

 

The murmurs are getting louder and louder. Sherlock resolutely stays silent until all of them quiet down on their own.

 

"I had no choice but to hide myself to protect their lives. With the help of a friend, I managed to pull off the ruse and fake my death. Nobody but this friend knew about the truth, that I was still alive. Soon after I left London not to endanger any of my friends. While abroad, I worked undercover to investigate the criminal organization controlled by James Moriarty."

 

"Moriarty specializes in trading favours. He is the middleman, the one who knows everyone, observes everything and takes advantage of the knowledge. When people come to him for a solution he takes what he needs from them in exchange for his service and in turn uses it to assist another client. He doesn't get his hands dirty unnecessarily, has connections in every place and was clever enough to stay behind the curtains. Nobody gets to see him unless he allows it," he pauses and breathes in heavily, suppressing the disdain that is threatening to surface to his well-kept expression. "Including myself."

 

"Mister Holmes!" An enthusiastic female journalist raises her hand. "I suppose if you were telling the truth, we could understand the reason why you had to fake your death. But the question is why he went so far just to do this to you? Was it just a personal vendetta then?"

 

"Moriarty considers me a hindrance to his business. I was consulting for the Scotland Yard and have interfered with some of his works. I am a consulting detective, he is a consulting criminal. Do your math."

 

"Do you have any proof that Richard Brook isn't real?"

 

"Given that the paper trails are there, Richard Brook might as well be real. It doesn't prove that he isn't the same person assuming Moriarty's identity. You are asking the wrong question."

 

Encouraged by their peers, more and more people begin to stand up and speak at the same time. Lestrade steps forward to bring some order to the commotion.

 

"Mister Holmes, where is Doctor Watson?" Someone pipes in just when the conference room starts to quiet down again. It incites another wave of grunts and murmurs from the agitated journalists. Lestrade tries to convince them to settle down but the turmoil gradually worsens.

 

"The fear for John's safety is the reason why I held this press conference."

 

Like a touch of magic, his voice renders everyone silent.

 

"Seven months ago, Doctor John Watson assisted The Scotland Yard with the arrest of Colonel Sebastian Moran, a sniper and killer-for-hire. Here is the truth that has yet been revealed to the public. Sebastian Moran is Moriarty's colleague. His right-hand man, in fact; as a significant percentage of his documented killings are paid for by Moriarty's known associates. In consequence, despite my dire attempts to keep him safe, John inadvertently put himself back under Moriarty's attention. Not long after attending Moran's trial as a witness, he left home for work and never returned."

 

The raucous crowds are positively astounded by this new piece of information. The room becomes eerily quiet in a matter of seconds. Even the camera crews seem to find themselves unable to conjure an appropriate response, awkwardly frozen behind their lenses.

 

"I've spent six months trying to track John down. Using the information from my two-year-long investigation, utilizing my influence and connections, straining my resources. I've done everything I could and--" Sherlock pauses, momentarily turning his back to the crowd as he covers his mouth with his hand, giving the perfect impression of someone so shaken he can barely get through with his speech.

 

"Sorry about that. As I said, I've done everything I could and I'm still coming up empty." He sniffs, pale eyes just a touch glassy. "I don't know if he is still alive, it's been the longest six months in my life. Logic dictates that I should be prepared for the worst, but I keep holding on to the notion that if he died, I would have known it. Would have felt it, somehow. Even right now... I believe that John is still alive."

 

"Therefore, here is what I'm going to do. My last recourse, what I've been reduced to," Sherlock tightens his lips, taking off his hat. "To anyone who are willing to listen, I, Sherlock Holmes, kindly ask for your assistance to locate my friend, Doctor John Watson."

 

"John's photo can be found on his blog. He could be anywhere around the world, so I would appreciate it if you'd spread the word, through the media or the internet. If you see John or have an inkling regarding his whereabouts you can send me a message, along with a picture if it should be convenient to you, through my website, The Science of Deduction. Most of you have probably had the address. If not, you can  _google_  my name. It should be somewhere on the first page."

 

The journalists begin to fiddle with their phones, presumably to launch a search for the website.

 

"That would be all, thank you."

 

Taking advantage of the distracted peers, Sherlock quickly turns around, steps off the podium and walks out of the room, ignoring the uproar he has caused.

 

"What was that for?!" Lestrade is quick to follow him.

 

Sherlock smirks, brushing the last of the 'tears' off his eyes with the back of his hand as he strides past the hall with long, confident steps.

 

"Can you hear that, Lestrade?" He gestures to the television inside one of the rooms, which is showing Lestrade's new sergeant along with a few officers, valiantly fighting off the reporters who are trying to pursue him.

 

"Sherlock!"

 

"The sound of my woeful story, spreading like wildfire," Sherlock fishes his phone out, grinning widely as the tweets regarding the event keep piling up, hundreds of them just within a few minutes. "Oh this is just lovely. Marvelous!"

 

"Look!" Lestrade grabs his arm. "Obviously you aren't planning on spending the next six months combing through millions of questionable clues provided by people around the world, so tell me what you are going to do."

 

Sherlock quirks an eyebrow. "That wasn't an informed deduction, Lestrade. Surely you know that there are various algorithms and tools I could use to automatically filter out irrelevant information from a cluster of digital data. Do keep up with the world, would you?"

 

"Two days ago you didn't know  _Twitter_ and now you are--what--a bloody hacker or something?!" Lestrade sputters, indignant.

 

Sherlock snorts out a laugh. "You watch way too much telly."

 

"Wait, Sherlock!"

 

"I'll text you later."

 

Sherlock shrugs the inspector off easily, stepping backwards towards the emergency exit stairs. As his back hits the door, he turns around, passes through and walks to the one corner, staring straight at the surveillance camera across of him. After giving the camera his grandest smirk, he motions them to read his lips. Each alphabet is spoken slowly and soundlessly.

 

_"I"_

 

_"O"_

 

_"U"_

XXX

  
Three days later, Sherlock is sprawled on his armchair, wearing his blue robe over his working attire, eyes closed. News about worldwide search for Doctor John Watson led by several groups on major social media sites is showing on the TV. A female journalist has just launched on an interview with the owner/administrator ofone of the leading social media websites which specializes on tracking missing persons, when the approaching footsteps on the stairs become audible. The steps are soft, almost soundless, possibly barefooted. Each more than one second apart, a gait Sherlock usually relates to Mrs. Hudson and her troublesome hip.

 

_"...right after we put up Doctor John Watson's page, our daily traffic quadrupled overnight. Apparently there are people who signed up especially for collaborating to his search."_

 

The footsteps stop.

 

Sherlock raises his head, eyes open.

 

_"...Not to say that Doctor Watson is the most important person on our search list, of course. We'd appreciate it if users would look at the other missing cases as well. Each person is equally important to us. They have distraught family and relatives who fear for their safety as well."_

 

As he notices an envelope sliding under the door, Sherlock propels himself off the chair and dashes towards the door, pushing it open. No one is there.

 

_"...Well personally, I think this case should be handled separately. Despite the great debacles on whether Sherlock Holmes is a fraud, or if Richard Brook is real, Doctor John Watson did go missing; at least according to our extensive background check before putting it up on our website. None of his friends, colleagues and acquaintances has seen or has had any sort of contact with him for the last six months. We even went to Dublin to clarify the situation with his sister, Harry Watson. She hasn't heard from him for months."_

 

Sherlock reaches down for the letter. It has his name, written with blue pen in John's familiar left-handed handwriting. It makes him feel a little sick in the stomach.

" _...To anyone who would like to contribute to the search, check out haveyouseen-dot-co-dot-uk slash johnwatson. No sign up is required for read-only access to the page."_

 

Sherlock slides the paper out of the simple white envelope, unfolding it quickly. A second later he folds the paper back and slips it in to his pocket. Slamming the door close, he marches towards the table and grabs his laptop.

_"Next up, we shall meet volunteers who have been handing out Doctor Watson's photos near Soho--"_

 

The TV is turned off.

XXX

_A week later_

 

"Sherlock," Moriarty sing-songs as he enters the pool, both hands inside his pocket. The dark blue Westwood suit do wonders on John's frame and eyes. His hair is a bit longer now, smoothly slicked back, looking just a shade darker. "I know you're here. Why won't you come out?"

Sherlock pressed his lips together, taking a deep breath as the smell of chlorine assaults his nose.

"Unlessss," The consulting criminal continues. "Is this a ploy to get me to a dark corner? Planning to have your way with me?While I'm  _literally_ inside your best friend's body?"

Sherlock steps out from the other side of the wall, clutching his parka.

Moriarty regards him with a tilt of head and nothing more.

Sherlock zips down the parka to reveal the semtex that has been tightened around his chest with velcro. Attached on the corner is a small device with blinking red light.

Moriarty's shoulders slump down, looking immensely unimpressed. "Is that supposed to be a threat? Because I'm not buying it."

"Maybe, or maybe this is just insurance. You can always choose to ignore it. Just humor me," Sherlock slips his hands back in to his pocket.

"Well, I was just about to applaud you for the clever sleight," Moriarty says, smiling. "Sure, it caused me great pains. I had to quit my daytime job, could hardly go outside without people trying to take my picture, asking for my name, or following me around..."

"Why, I thought you'd have gotten used to the attention, _Mr. Sex_.”

Moriarty snorts.

 

"Maybe we ought to get together, Sherlock. I can move back in, place a few bombs around London, coming up with puzzles to keep your mind from rotting. Imagine that."

Sherlock frowns.

"You will never be bored again.  _We_  will never be bored again."

"If you like, I can even pretend that I'm John! Well, not all the time. Even the best actor needs to take a break from his role now and then, but well," he shrugs. "I suppose I can do it when we're out solving cases, or when I'm warming your bed--whoops--that was Johnny. Not me. My bad. He took over when I said that, I swear."

Sherlock averts his eyes momentarily, staring at the gently swaying water.

Moriarty takes a few steps closer, stopping near the edge of the pool. "Aren't you curious how I found out about your secret phrases with John?"

Sherlock turns back to face him.

 

"I have unlimited access to his memory. His thoughts. His feelings. None is sacred between us, all knowledge is shared. In fact, I could feel him flinch every time I use his crack-shot hand to kill. Not necessarily with a gun, mind you. I've always been more of a hands-on kind of person." To emphasize, Moriarty holds up his hand. John's hand. "His military and medical knowledge came in handy as well. Helped me arrange a few coups, kept the kettle boiling, if you know what I mean."

"For six months. Six glorious months, I took him for the wildest ride in his life. He must have been begging for death by now. Oh right, I could find out. Would you like to find out as well?"

"Yes, I would," Sherlock replies, pulling a handgun out of his pocket. "I'll ask him about that myself, later."

"Someone is getting desperate," Moriarty holds his hands up mockingly. "Your little Johnny doesn't approve of this, just so you know."

"I'm only going to say this once," Sherlock says, leveling his gun. "Leave John's body, or die with it."

"Really? You don't love Johnny anymore?"

"If your new pet sniper tries anything funny, I'm blowing both of us up."

"What the whaaaat--"

 

Sherlock takes the safety off and keeps his gun raised, hand steady.

"Is this your plan? Your only plan after that elaborate ruse to summon me here?" Moriarty scrunches up his face in disdain. "No, there has to be more. You are hiding something."

"You did say that my weakness was wanting everything to be clever," Sherlock replies. "I'm learning from my mistake."

"You know it wouldn't work! Of course you're not going to kill John Watson!" Moriarty snarls at him. John's face isn't supposed to bear that kind of expression, Sherlock notes with a wince. How dare Moriarty use the sacred vessel of his best friend like this, making John carry the weight of his sins. "If you kill me, Johnny-boy dies with me!"

 

“Or _you_ die, or at least weaken enough for him to take over before the body dies.”

 

Moriarty starts laughing, as if he knows that the rabid expressions he is making John wear really wears Sherlock’s nerves down.

 

“We will both die and you know it.”

"Oh, I am well aware of the possibility," Sherlock's expression is an epitome of calm. "The man in front of you isn't the old Sherlock Holmes anymore. The logical part of my brain has suffered quite a blow when it was forced to acknowledge your existence. What is impossible and what is improbable, I can't tell them apart anymore. Either way I lose John, so I’m choosing the way that allows for a chance, how small, to get him back."

"YOU FOOL!" Moriarty howls. "THAT IS THE MOST FOOLISH THING I'VE HEARD! NO SHERLOCK,YOU DON'T GET TO BE THE IDIOT! I WON'T ALLOW YOU--"

Sherlock shoots. It is a clean shot on his left shoulder. The bullet passes through, hitting the wall behind him.

 

“I told you I was going to ask just once.”

Moriarty glares at the entry wound in disbelief as it starts to bleed profusely. Sherlock lowers his gun, takes the heavy parka off and approaches him with quick, harried steps.

"You are a fool, Sherlock," the criminal mastermind chokes out. Sherlock catches him just as he starts to collapse forward. Moriarty grabs his collar, pulling him closer.

"Guess what?" Moriarty whispers with a satisfied grin. "I lied. Johnny isn't here anymore. It's just me."

Sherlock offers him a quick eyebrow quirk before pressing a handkerchief on his nose and mouth, forcefully holding him down until John's body goes limp against his chest. Pulling the handkerchief back, he looks down at the slack face of his best friend and whispers under his breath.

"I know."

XXX

 

TBC

 


	5. Interlude - Hour of the Tiger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise the next chapter will be the last. I was just conflicted where to put this piece, then I decided it would serve well as an interlude to the ending.

Sherlock reaches down for the letter. It has his name, written with blue pen in John's familiar left-handed handwriting. It makes him feel a little sick in the stomach. 

 

Not wanting to prolong the suspense, he quickly slips the paper out of the envelope. It only has one word. His computer-generated, 20-digit password for accessing the admin panel of his website, The Science of Deduction. John is the only one who knows about it. Sherlock made him memorize it after they were arguing about how unfair it was that Sherlock knows how to log on to all of John's online accounts. To be fair, he showed it to John as a payback for his constant nagging about Sherlock 'borrowing' his laptop. He didn't expect John to actually memorize it. For security purposes, the password practically consists of gibberish random characters mashed up together, not to mention it is case-sensitive. Could it be Moriarty? He did hack John's blog before.

 

Slipping the piece of paper in to his pocket, Sherlock slams the door close and marches towards the table, grabbing his laptop. He turns off the telly and settles on the sofa, the laptop on his lap.

 

After logging on to his dashboard, his eyes scan the interface swiftly, searching for anomaly. It doesn't take him more than three seconds to notice a mysterious addition to his draft folder. It is supposed to be empty, but apparently someone has put an unfinished entry there, dated today just ten minutes ago. 

 

He closes his eyes momentarily, heaves in a deep breath and finally clicks on the content. The text editor pops out, revealing something that looks more like a letter rather than unfinished webpage content.

 

Sherlock narrows his eyes and starts reading.

 

 

_Sherlock,_

 

_This letter is written and kept in your draft folder of your immensely unpopular website, The Science of Deduction. In case you don't know who I am, remember the flatmate whom you have briefly showed the stupidly long and complicated password to? Well, that bloke took great efforts to memorize it so he could get back at you one day for constantly snooping on his emails (he planned to upload your picture with the reindeer headband as the header for your website, but someone wasn't feeling so festive that Christmas, so.)_

 

_Before I start my explanations, I just need to clear this up. If Moriarty told you he could browse the information stored in my brain like some sort of public library, he lied. It was one of my saving graces, a shred of dignity I could maintain that even if he had my body, I got to keep my mind. I understand if you are still feeling doubtful, so I have prepared another evidence for you, but to make you understand, I have to stray off the topic a little. Please bear with me and don't stop reading because you get bored._

 

_Remember Mrs. Hudson's lemon custard biscuit? It's your favourite. You never said so, but it is sort of obvious because it was the only thing you'd be willing to put in to your mouth when you were working. I've observed that when you smelled it nearby, you just reached out for it without thinking. I thought it might be useful for when she wasn't around and you hadn't eaten anything for three days but still stubbornly told me that you were 'okay until Thursday', so I asked Mrs. Hudson to teach me how to bake it (I was unemployed. It was more productive than sitting all day watching crap telly so whatever insult you are about to fling, shut it.) It was fun until I remembered that I was actually doing it for you. Me, Sherlock, in a sodding apron, wielding cooking gloves, slaving over a bowl of batter just because you were being an unreasonable git. So I decided to switch the sugar with salt. That day you were in one of those 'not talking for days' phase of your work progress. You just sat at the table, observing God-knows-what on your microscope. I walked in with the biscuits, and you visibly perked up at the smell. I put the plate on the table, within your reach but of course you only extended an arm and expected me to hand it over to you. I picked up one of mine and gave it to you. I expected you to spit it out, but you just ate it as if it were normal. I thought I took the wrong one so the second time, I checked to make sure I got you the salty one. You tucked away without as much as an eyebrow twitch. You didn't even demand tea afterwards. I was amazed._

 

 _Sherlock, you said there was no such thing as a coincidence. I don't know what this is, but here is a little bizarre occurrence regarding the lemon custard biscuit. You might or might not notice this, but Mrs. Hudson always baked that particular biscuit when you were working so you wouldn't accidentally starve to death (I actually think that you are the only one in the world who could pull this off). I joined her every time, and each time I made sure to put too much salt on mine. As per usual, I brought it up to you and watched you eat them. The first few times, I always piled mine on the top of the stack because you never ate more than three pieces at a time. I wanted to see when you would notice the odd taste. Out of those three times, you ate the three of mine. Then I started really mixing up the biscuits on the plate, between mine and Mrs. Hudson's. By then I had learned that you never really looked at it before gobbling it up, so I marked mine with a small orange dot on the bottom. Each time (seriously, I can't stress this enough,_ every single time,  _Sherlock) you always ended up eating mine. Three out of three, two out of two, one out of one. It's just like your hand has some sort of magnetic force that lands it on my salt-laden biscuit. I know you are snorting right now, but it doesn't make it any less true. The first few times might have been coincidence, but the next dozens of times... those can't be explained._

 

_Anyway, four days ago when you returned with Molly and Greg, Mrs. Hudson baked the biscuit for you. I did something a bit not good. I 'borrowed' her body for a while to bake some for you as usual (don't worry, she has known about me for quite some time -- I'll get to that later). I was there when you ate it and once again you grabbed mine. You ate one, and once again, it was mine. It was my only chance to prove my presence to you because nobody else knows about it, not even Mrs. Hudson. Perhaps God hasn't forsaken me after all._

 

 

Sherlock's eyes dart across the room, to the small glass jar containing the leftover biscuits on the kitchen table. Setting the laptop aside, he rises and approaches the table carefully, inspecting the jar from outside. Some of the biscuits do have small, almost unnoticeable orange dots on them. Sherlock carefully takes the lid off and grabs each of the marked and the unmarked. After sampling them, he turns and stares at the front door longingly, but eventually he returns to the sofa, picks up the laptop, relocates to the kitchen table and continues to read.

 

 

_Sherlock, right now you might be wondering why I am not with Moriarty, inside my body._

 

 

Sherlock grabs one of the biscuits without looking. It has an orange dot on it.

 

 

_Let me start from the very beginning. Six months after your 'death', Moriarty started haunting me using your form. At first he was just... wisps of white smokes, shadowing my curtains. I barely noticed him. As the days passed, his form grew more and more solid. I don't think I'll ever forget the first time I saw him, I meant in the 'I can't possibly be seeing this but I still see it and it won't go away' way. He took your form, stood in the corner of my room in the other flat. The bottom half of his body was transparent. To say that I was terrified would have been a massive understatement. I was already broken to begin with. It felt like someone just jabbed a salt-covered finger in to my bullet wound. I've always felt guilty for not being able to support you, to stop you from jumping that day, and suddenly I saw your ghost. I thought you blamed me, or perhaps you wanted me to fix everything, which I had no power over, Sherlock. I was devastated. I tried talking to him, but he just stood there, every single night, watching me with his bleeding head and the saddest eyes. There was a time, which I'm not proud of, when I considered eating a bullet in front of him, just to invoke some sort of reaction. I wanted to see if it was what he wanted. Then I had this wild idea that perhaps you were displeased because I left Baker Street, left Mrs. Hudson alone. I began visiting our flat. I was wary but he didn't follow me there, not at first. And after I came for the first time, I thought his eyes looked a bit more approving, so I visited as much as I could manage to. In the end, I decided to move back in. He appeared again on the first night, inside your room. His form looked clearer than ever, it was as if this place gave him some power to solidify his presence._

 

_Greg might have told you about me, changing my behaviour to emulate you. To be honest, I don't remember doing all those things. It wasn't on purpose. I was barely surviving, day to day. I did everything I could to stay strong, stay and look normal even though every night I came back home to the ghost of my dead flatmate. Maybe my brain subconsciously thought of you, when I found myself unable to sleep, unable to eat. I had seen you did all those and I wanted to be just as strong as you. 'If Sherlock could have done it, I could too,' I remember thinking about those sorts of things._

 

_After Greg saw Moriarty, he warned me to stay away from him. I should have listened, but instead, I opened another gate of communication with him. He started to talk to me. He told me that he didn't mean to scare me that he didn't talk because he didn't want to add up to my confusion. He made up a story about adjusting to his new form as a ghost, about being scared and confused and unsure how he was going to live with it. I ate it up like a goddamn idiot, Sherlock. I trusted him. I thought he was you. I didn't know that he was just warming me up so he could take over my body._

 

_When he first suggested it, I was wary. I told him it would make me uncomfortable to lose a few hours not knowing what I had done. He convinced me that he could let me stay aware, even when he was the one in control. It took us several tries, then it was working. He could control my body, and I could stay awake the whole time. I was happy. Hell, I was more than happy. I thought I had given you what you needed the most. I would have willingly and happily shared my body with you if that was what it took to keep you with me. Moriarty took advantage of that. It began with small things. He was careful. He took over my body when I was asleep at night. I don't know what he did during that time, but I could feel it in the morning, the tingling feeling in my chest whenever he took me out without asking at night. I refrained myself from confronting him about it because normally you were nocturnal as well. I thought you were just bored, or there was something you needed urgently, or you just wanted to relive what it was like to be alive, doing things that you didn't want to share with me. I always came back in one piece without as much as a scratch on my body. I thought it was you being considerate and careful. I didn't want to judge you for it. The next thing I know, one day, I woke up, trapped in my own body. I was conscious whenever he wanted me to be present, and he could shut me off when he wants me to stay out of his business. I wish I had fought his influence harder, that way at least I would have been able to give you some clues regarding his activities._

 

 _The one month when I was stuck being a helpless passenger inside my own vessel, it was the longest month in my life. When you finally showed up, I was too busy being scared out of my wits to be properly happy that you were alive. I realized Moriarty could have only done all those to make you miserable, and he was going to make me watch, every step of it. As you've said on the rooftop that day, I strangled you so you would be aware of the danger. It was the first time I managed to resurface and take control, if only just for a while. I tried, and tried again so many times after that, but I kept failing. I was at my wit's end. I was angry, sad, I was frustrated with myself. You were right there and I couldn't do anything. I wanted to punch you for the shit you pulled three years ago, then I would forgive you because, Sherlock, against all odds, you have fulfilled my wish, my one miracle. You might have made it alive after the jump, but it could have easily been reversed. The situation could have easily worsened (was that why you made me think you were dead? Some sort of fucked up warm up exercise just in case you really died?) You were fighting against the whole criminal organization,_ alone _! What the fuck were you thinking about? Now I want to punch you again. You see, I haven't made up my mind._

 

_Anyway Sherlock, when Moriarty made my own hands push you down the rooftop, it was the last straw. In my mind, I looked down at you, plunging in to the darkness. I didn't think I could live with that... so soon after I got you back, I had to lose you again. I wanted to follow you, so I jumped after you. The next second, I was looking up at myself (Moriarty) as I fell down. That's when I realized, I was already separated from my body. I hate to say this, but I might have died, Sherlock. I'm sorry for that. You don't deserve this, not after everything you've done to preserve my life._

 

 

Sherlock leans back on the chair, closing his eyes, face contorted in anger and grief. Damn right, John. Damn fucking right he doesn't deserve this. The last light in his life just turns off. Nothing else matters anymore, not even his life; not if he couldn't bring John back. When he opens his eyes, his vision is blurred with tears, the real ones. His chest feels cold, his head numb. The small ball of snow has turned in to an avalanche. There is no stopping it now, he has lost his chance. John has died. John has died.  _John has died_.

 

_"Keep reading, Sherlock."_

 

Sherlock stands up so fast he almost knocks the chair down. His eyes scan with whole area with precision and godly speed. The voice sounded like a whisper in his ear, it is impossible to pinpoint the origin. But it is definitely, unmistakably, John's voice.

 

_"Come on, finish the letter. It's common courtesy you twat."_

 

"John," he gasps out, twisting his body to check his surroundings. He can't see anything. Why can't he see John? Who would be so cruel to deny him this last exemption?

 

_"I know what you're thinking about and I won't have it, Sherlock. Finish the goddamn letter. It might change your mind."_

 

Grudgingly, Sherlock sits back down and continues to read,

 

 

_Later, I woke up in 221b. You were there, Mrs. Hudson wasn't. I could tell that you were about to leave again but I wasn't upset, because you were alive, and apparently Greg hadn't been killed either because two days later, he stopped by the flat to speak with Mrs. Hudson about your departure. I suppose it had something to do with your brother, Moriarty was talking about Mycroft's meddling just before you arrived. You walked out of your room, your face all business-like. Grim. You took another look around the flat, then you left. I tried to follow you, but it turned out I couldn't leave the building. Some force was holding me in. I just stood inside our flat for days, constantly blacking out, like I was repeatedly being transferred from realm to realm. It was bad. The uncertainty, the fear, the grief, the anger, I was just stewing in these ugly emotions. Until Mrs. Hudson entered the flat, took one look at me and smiled. She offered me tea, Sherlock. Tea. For a ghost. Bless the lady. Mr. Chatterjee doesn't deserve her. I'd hook her up with an angel if one ever comes to see me._

 

 

Despite himself, Sherlock snorts out a laugh. "Really, John? An angel?"

 

There is no reply.

 

 

_Mrs. Hudson kept me company most of the time. She told me stories, or simply sat in silence as we watched crap telly together. Just like old times. After a while, I started to feel better. More grounded. The blackouts subsided, I was aware most of the time. I had been resigned when I had first arrived here, but the more I thought about Moriarty using my body to commit crimes, kill the innocents, torture your mind, the angrier I got. I wanted to get back at him, for everything he had done to us. So I started to convince Mrs. Hudson to learn how to use the laptop better. I taught her to launch a browser, how to google something, made her open and scroll down articles for me as I read and learned more about my current  transcendent being. Most of them are baseless and utter bullcrap, but I think I've stumbled upon some gold, the genuine ones, written by people with real gifts. I think I might even have a chance to return to my body._

 

 

Sherlock must have shown a particularly pleasing expression at that point, because when he turns to his side, John is there, leaning down to read along from behind his shoulder. He is wearing Sherlock's favourite striped jumper, with blue jeans and barefooted, looking like the embodiment of domesticity. Sherlock could see every detail like he is a real physical being, with his mussed hair and wrinkles around his eyes.

 

And most importantly, he is smiling. When John smiles like this, Sherlock can't help feeling like they can conquer the world.

 

 

"John," he says again, mirroring the smile. "Let's do this. Together."

 

John grins.

 

 

_PS: Mrs. Hudson has no idea that I have been botching her recipe, I'll appreciate it if you'll keep this between the two of us. I've seen her with the frying pan. She's not one to mess with._

 

 

TBC

 


	6. Hour of the Rabbit

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for following the story to the end. This chapter is dedicated to a terrific friend [danlef](http://danlef.livejournal.com) for tirelessly reminding me to keep my head straight and finish the story. I'm sorry this update is terribly late, but you know the reason why :)
> 
> 'Salt and burn' is a nod to Supernatural TV Series where I learned all my occult stuff. I don't think it is practiced for real anywhere in the world for exorcism, although I have heard a Buddhist tradition in Japan to throw some salt over your shoulder after attending a funeral to chase away evil spirit which might have attached itself to you. (source: http://www.cargill.com/salt/about/historyofsalt/religion/)

_Harlow, Essex_

_Seven days ago, two days before The Pool_

 

 

Sherlock closes his eyes and breathes in. The sweet, earthy scent of wet soil does little to soothe his nerves as he tries to ignore the mud puddles around his good  _Yves Saint Laurent,_  clutching his umbrella with ice-cold fingers. The sound of harshly spattering rain weighing down the black umbrella is starting to make him feel a little queasy. A few feet away in front of him, the three men Mycroft has assigned to assist him are still working in silence. Efficient, calm, nerves of steel, men of action. All deceivingly strong even though their first impression screamed 'paper-pusher'.

 

"Mister Holmes," the one with the glasses calls out. He is the one standing over the pit while his two workmates dig from inside.

 

Sherlock steps out from behind the large bark of tree, one hand kept inside his coat pocket as he approaches them with brisk, careful steps. His entire footwear is to be binned after this afternoon, he notes with a grimace at the splotching and grimy sensation on his socks.

 

Upon reaching the unmarked burial site, he folds the umbrella, tucks it under his arm and scoots under the makeshift plastic roof over their heads.

 

Down inside the newly-dug hole is a simple veneered mahogany coffin with brass handles. Marks near the lid indicates past attempts at breaking it open.

 

"Open it," he orders, eyes locked on the angel carvings on the front side of the lid. Apparently Mycroft (unsurprisingly) heard their conversation on the rooftop that day and (surprisingly) wasn't above taunting a dead man.

 

_Who is on the side of the angels now?_

 

On the count of three, the lid is pushed open. Sherlock narrows his eyes, knowing exactly what they are going to find.

 

"Jesus," gasps the one with the nails, taking a moment to step back and catch his breath before turning to him, astonished. "Mister Holmes, it's---"

 

Sherlock is already three steps away, turning up his collar, walking back towards the car.

 

The three men share a confused look. The one with the glasses cringes as the phone rings before he has the chance to push the send button for the half-written outgoing message. Not a second after, the one with the protruding middle could feel his phone vibrating inside his trousers pocket. Tossing the gloves off hurriedly, he scrambles to retrieve the phone under the raincoat. The one with the nails looks down at the empty casket in defeat as his colleagues start talking at the same time, knowing well that he will not be an exception. His own phone, tucked in the inner pocket inside his coat, is going to ring in:

 

_three_

.

.

_two_

.

.

_one_

.

.

 

MY BODY IS YOUR VESSEL

_Chapter 5 of 5 - Hour of the Rabbit_

 

 

 

 

"Yeah, I know. I'll be at the office before noon," Greg says, taking a sip from his coffee before depositing the half-empty cup back on to the holder next to his car seat. "It'll be fine. In that case, I'll let you know."

 

"Anyway, about the closed-room murder case, have you--h-hello? Hello? Can you hear--oh f--" He glares at the phone as the screen fades to black, despite having just being charged for four hours. Sighing in defeat, he slips the phone back in to his pocket, unbuckles the seat belt and steps out of the car.

 

Storming in to 221b while shouting at the world's only consulting detective seems to be the pattern these days, Greg reflects as he looks up at the building. Having spent the better part of the night tracking down a group of bank robbers, perhaps he'll settle for reluctant acquiescence today. It ought to be better for his blood pressure.

 

"Sherlock," he calls out after Mrs. Hudson let him in (bastard never answers the door), climbing up the stairs. The door to the flat is open. He can see Sherlock standing in front of the mirror, putting on his scarf. "Look, just because you've just learned to use the word 'please' doesn't mean you get to use it to--" He pauses mid-rant. Sherlock is putting on the deerstalker now. The entire Scotland Yard has had a good laugh over the stupid hat, but it never bodes well whenever Sherlock wears it on his own accord.

 

"Good, you're here," Sherlock turns to him with a wide smile, which probably means that whatever he has in mind will either get him demoted or dead or most mercifully, both. "We should leave now if we're going to make it in time for the event."

 

Greg frowns. "An event of what sort?"

"Nothing too formal. Your wrinkled suit should be passably acceptable," Sherlock moves past him towards the door. "Come on, Lestrade. We are running late. I'll explain on the way."

 

Greg clenches his jaw and turns to the consulting detective with crossed arms and a petulant glare. Acquiescence won't do, it won't teach this selfish git anything at all.

 

"My suit is perfectly  _fine,_ " Not everyone can afford to function while looking like a runway model all day long. Granted, Sherlock might be able to pull that one and catch a serial killer before lunch time but as long as he doesn't point it out, Greg's argument stands. "Despite what you think, I don't work for your brother and I'm not your bloody chauffeur so you better let me in on your plan, you hear me?"

 

Greg keeps his eyes on him, watching for any signs of acknowledgement but Sherlock keeps moving around the room to collect his things, humming random noises in a manner which usually means that he isn't listening.

 

"Sherlock," he warns gruffly. "We're not going anywhere before you explain."

 

Sherlock waves a familiar set of keys in his hand as he walks out of the door. Greg pats down his coat pocket and curses under his breath.

 

XXX

 

Greg takes a moment to revel in the huge building in front of him as it comes to view.  _Earls Court_ _Exhibition Centre_. He could see a long queue forming in front of Earls Court Two, but it is too far to see the words on the banners. Probably it is the event Sherlock told him about. Upon turning his head to his side, he discovers that Sherlock is no longer walking alongside of him. It has always been like this; it's like Sherlock's energy doubles whenever he is on a case. For all he knows, Sherlock could have skipped food and sleep for three consecutive days and still be able to outrun him, jump over fences, tackles down a murder suspect and stays on his feet long enough until after the suspect confirms his theories. He could have sworn Sherlock was walking next to him not a minute ago, and now the lanky man is already standing across the street near Earls Court Two building, dramatic billowing coattail and all.

 

"Sherlock!" He calls out, running after the man. It bothers him more than he is willing to admit to see Sherlock get ahead of him so quickly. He runs faster just to prove that he can keep up. Sherlock isn't so much younger than he is. He isn't even that  _sodding_  old. After running for a while, Greg rests his hands on his knees just for a second, catching his breath. When he looks up, he can see Sherlock standing not far from him, chatting with a young brunette in a lab coat. Probably coaxing out information from the poor, gullible girl with his sham.

 

"Sherlock!" He approaches the younger man with brisk strides, annoyed at the lack of response. 'Sherlock' turns to him, pale eyes wide with surprise, matching his own gape as he stares down at 'his' breasts. 

 

"Jesus!" He jumps back, flushing furiously from neck up. "I--I'm terribly sorry, ma'am. I thought you were someone else."

 

The two girls look at each other before turning to him simultaneously, unmistakable delight in their eyes. By this point Greg could see that the girl in the lab coat looks eerily similar to Molly, down to the smell of chemicals on her coat. The one wearing Sherlock's signature coat also has similar build to the real consulting detective; tall, graceful, with prominent cheekbones. Both are young, bright and drop-dead gorgeous.

 

 

"Are you Detective Inspector Lestrade?" 'Sherlock' asks him with unabashed excitement. When he fails to respond, her grin only grows wider. "Oh my God it's really him! I know I said I'd remain in character today but--"

 

"Yes, I know! Oh my God!" gasps 'Molly' with a distinctive accent he couldn't pinpoint.

 

Greg takes another step back, the girls crowd around him. He has been aware of the presence of the not-a-small-amount of Sherlock Holmes fans all across London, but it's the first time he has been cornered by one of his own.

 

"W-would you care terribly-if we were to ask you to--a picture, I mean-" 'Molly' pauses to regulate her breath, holding up a hand to her concerned friend.

 

"A-are you here on police business?" 'Sherlock' looks down at him (it's the  _heels_ ) with hopeful eyes.

 

"Yes, of course we can't ask him if he's busy," 'Molly' mutters under her breath, averting her eyes.

 

He doesn't trust himself to let out anything coherent at the moment, so he just gives them a small nod and watches the lights snuffed from their eyes.

 

"How charming," a baritone voice drawls from his back after he sends the two girls off with a clumsily-drawn autograph. Before he has a chance to turn around and tells the consulting detective off, Sherlock traipses to his side and tosses him a Union Jack baseball cap.

 

"Can't have you stopped by an enthusiastic admirer every two-step of the way, can we?" He answers to Greg's indignant glare with a smirk as he stuffs both hands back in his pockets and starts walking towards the building.

 

XXX

 

"Sherlock," Greg croaks out after quietly counting to ten. "What are we doing here?"  _Why is there a huge banner with your name and your photo over there? Why are these people dressed like you? Why did the girl at the registration say 'Welcome to Sherlock Holmes Fan Convention 2014, here is a complimentary Science of Deduction t-shirt.'? What exactly is this 'Lestrade Blend' tea they are selling near the entrance made of?_

 

An 'Anderson' steps on his foot and walks away without apologizing. Greg has never felt so far out of his element before. On the other hand, Sherlock looks immensely pleased with himself as he observes the buzzing crowds the way Her Majesty the Queen would to her loyal subjects. The madman actually  _loves_  the fact that these people gather in this huge hall to sell overpriced t-shirts, keychains and mugs with his face on them. Who would have guessed?

 

"A Deduction Booth," Sherlock remarks, affably surprised. He is looking at a small booth nearby, with another 'Sherlock' who launches on a questionable deduction regarding a couple's recent engagement status by observing the state of their rings. "That was quite decent. Except that he failed to mention that the relationship was doomed to fail. The girl is obviously doubting their recent leap of commitment."

 

"She makes classic self-comforting gestures every time he says something about their engagement. Her back looks tense and her smile is tight," Sherlock apparently takes one look at him, reads the confusion and is feeling generous enough to light his way. "He has an arm around her, but her shoulder barely touches his chest. She creates the distance. She isn't sure if he is the right person for her."

 

"Doesn't mean that it dooms to fail," Greg frowns at him. "Doesn't mean they don't love each other."

 

He expects a barrage of arguments or at least a disbelieving snort, but instead Sherlock keeps his eyes on the young couple wearing matching boffin and bachelor hats and science of deduction t-shirts, his gaze almost tender. Witnessing the look in Sherlock Holmes' face makes him feel like his chest is immersed in hot water. He quickly looks away, forcing out some small coughs to bypass the awkwardness.

 

"Seriously, though. What are we doing here?" He mutters, hands rested on his hips. "Who came up with this-no, wait--did you hold this event?"

 

Sherlock throws him a narrowed-eye dirty look. "Don't be dull, Lestrade. When would I have the time?" Which inadvertently insinuates that if he had the time, he would. 

 

"We're looking for some teddy bears."

 

Greg tilts his head. "I'm sorry?"

 

"Already sent the picture to your phone," Sherlock whips his head around anxiously, probably condemning his question too tedious to respond to. "There is a good chance that they are going to be sold in one or more of the booths. Some might be fakes, but I want them all collected for good measure."

 

"Alright, wait just a second," Greg fishes his phone out of his pocket. It is still turned off, out of power. He hasn't had a chance to charge it from earlier.

 

"Left-hand coat pocket," Sherlock snaps as he passes him by, pacing quickly towards the crowds. "Take the north hall, I'll take the South. Text me when you find something."

 

Greg throws a puzzled look at the consulting detective's back before slipping a hand inside the after-mentioned pocket. He can feel an object he definitely didn't have on him before. It's a black  _iPhone_ , probably one of many phones Sherlock keeps on his person ever since he returns from 'his death'. He doesn't try to mull over how Sherlock knows that his phone are out of power, or how he managed to slip it in to his  _inside_  coat pocket without being noticed. Sliding to the home screen, he launches the messaging app and loads the picture Sherlock sent him earlier.

 

"Oh," his grin widens. This is just lovely. Too bleeding hilarious. One of these is definitely going to the evidence vault later.

 

 

XXX

 

Thirty minutes later, Greg is no closer to finding the right booth. There are literally hundreds of booths, what feels like thousands of people. He could hardly walk around without almost brushing against someone else. Sherlock doesn't answer his call and he is done double-checking his area, so he wanders to the south hall, hoping to catch a glimpse of the real Sherlock. The south hall seems to be slightly larger and denser than the north. Trying to find Sherlock among the sea of deerstalker-wearing people seems like a lost cause. He is about to return to the north area when his phone chimes. 

 

_Second booth on the third column near the ATM, South Hall. SH._

 

Greg doesn't need to look around for long to spot a small booth selling a variety of merchandise, including four ' _Bearlock Holmes_ ' which are obviously intended as the centrepiece. Behind the display table is a willowy teenager. It is somewhat refreshing to see someone who isn't wearing the hat for once.

 

_Where are you?_  Greg texts.

 

The reply comes within the minute.  _A bit tied up at the moment. Might not make it there. Do whatever you can to get the stuffed bears._

 

Greg sighs and texts back,  _I'll just buy them. You can pay me back later._

 

Sherlock doesn't reply. Greg adjusts his cap, braces himself for some outrageous price and steps in front of the booth.

 

"Hi," greets the teenager with a small smile. "Like something in particular?"

 

"Well yeah," Greg licks his lips. "This teddy bear--"

 

"Oh good choice," the teenager grins at him brightly. "This teddy bear was produced by The Great British Teddy Bear Company. It's a special limited edition, only a few of 'em are around at the moment. You can take a look anywhere inside this hall, or on the internet, you won't find this anywhere else. Here, touch it! Very soft, innit? It's handmade. Top quality."

 

Greg throws him an easy smile, grasping the soft ear of the bear. With this much hype, he wonders how much is going to extorted from him at the end of the day.

 

"My daughters would love this to bits," he forces out a tight smile. "In fact, I have four daughters at home. I'd hate to have them fighting for this fine thing. Think I'm going to take all of them."

 

The teenager looks vaguely surprised, but otherwise very pleased. "Oh that's nice. A dedicated father. Yeah, I like that." Then his expression shifts every so slightly. Greg could have heard the 'but' coming from two miles away. "I-I'd hate to bum you out, but these bears are already spoken for. You know, someone came earlier and bought all of them! They're still here only because he asked me to take care of them while he's looking around. Think he's some sort of a... teddy bear collector, I guess?"

 

Greg raises an eyebrow, "Oh really?" Despite what Sherlock says, he does observe. He knows when someone blurts out an outright lie to him. "What does he look like? This bear-collector."

 

"Like Sherlock Holmes, wears the wig, the big-ass coat and everything. As you can see, they all dress alike 'round here," the teenager shrugs. "Look, my brother works for the company and you know, they actually produced hundreds more of these, but they couldn't sell it because of some legal reasons so they were about to dispose of 'em. Hundreds of them!" He makes some exaggerated gestures with his arms. "Luckily my brother got ahold of them before they were destroyed. He didn't know what to do with them, honestly. He gave them to me because he knew I was a Sherlock Holmes fan. Has always been. Gotta respect the bloke, mate. He is like, brilliant."

 

"Obviously I didn't know what to do with so many stuffed bears, so I decided to share it with fellow  _Sherlockians_. I'd share it for free, but, you know, I gotta pay for this booth, and the deliveries and stuff. The price is basically just for covering some handling fees. The bear itself is like, free!"

 

Greg leans back, lips pressed together. The booth owner is obviously attempting some sort of scam, and Sherlock did warn him about fakes. He just needs to confirm the method before deciding how to proceed with the situation.

 

"So about the teddy bear,"

 

"Right, right. The  _Bearlock Holmes_ , for your four beautiful daughters," the teenager rolls his tongue and smiles cheekily, pulling a notebook out from his drawer. "If you'd just put down your name and your address here, I'll have the bears delivered to your house this week."

 

"Alright," he takes the offered pen. "Do I have to make some sort of down payment first?"

 

"Yeah, that would be appreciated, actually. I just need it for the delivery's fee."

 

Greg leans down to put down his name and address. His eyes catches several names on the same page above his, and the numbering on the side. There is his proof. He lowers his pen and straightens up again.

 

"How many of these did you say you have?"

 

The teenager frowns at him and shrugs. "I don't know mate. Like, hundreds of 'em. My brother put them in a storage unit."

 

"So you're saying that you don't keep track of the number of the teddy bears you have, but you're still confident that there will be enough for us all."

 

The teenager freezes, pale in colour. For a moment Greg thinks he is going to abandon his booth and flee, but suddenly he waves his hands wildly above his head and starts screaming bloody murder, attracting a few security officers and some curious by-passers.

 

"Mate, you gotta kick this man outta here," he tells the security personnel, the  _nerve_. "He just went loony when I told him I ain't got the stuff he wanted!"

 

Greg sighs. "Look, whatever he's telling you, I'm not--"

 

"I'm out, I'm telling you! Bloke went batshit crazy when I told him I was out!"

 

One of the security guard approaches him. "Sir, I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave."

 

"This prat here is trying to--"

 

"Just because the stuff is displayed here, doesn't mean that it's for sale!" The teenager flails some more, gathering some bystanders on his side. "You didn't have to hit me! Yes he did hit me!"

 

"Oh, for the love of--" It is the last straw. Greg takes off his cap and flashes his badge. Collective gasps of astonishment could be heard around the hall. He could hear people whispering his name, and even more gather around them like he is some circus performer.

 

"Listen, this young man here has been pulling a scam on you. All the," he pauses to grasps the notebook open. "All the one-thousand-thirty-two of you. Is there someone here who has ordered this teddy bear from him? Anyone?"

 

"I did!" A young woman in yellow shirt steps forward. "He asked me to pay twenty quid as a down-payment for delivery and handling fee, said he'd send the teddy bear by the end of the week."

 

"He lied. He doesn't have any more teddy bears. Those four are probably the only ones. He uses them as a bait to get people to order more from him. Assuming each person ordered one, that would have been twenty thousand quid," Greg turns at the frightened teenager, who seems to be slinking away further inside his tiny booth. "If you know what's good for you, you'll cooperate and follow me to the station."

 

The crowd starts boo-ing and chanting curses at the teenager, some screaming, demanding their money back.

 

"We have your names and addresses, we'll contact you regarding the refund as soon as we can," Greg assures them. He needs to get them to calm down otherwise it wouldn't be a dignified exit for both the suspect and himself. Stepping forward, he grabs the teenager's hand and pulls. "Come on, we're leaving."

 

To his surprise, the teenager isn't very eager to leave the possibly life-threatening situation. Pulling away, he boldly steps on the table. "Think I'm a sodding fool? I'm not going anywhere. You don't have any proof! So what, I can't remember the exact number of the teddy bears I own, so I must not own them? Ask any business owner here, do they remember the exact number of each merchandise they have?"

 

"Fine!" Greg snaps, rapidly losing his cool. The kid could have defended himself in court. "You said your brother worked at the Great British Teddy Bear Company? What's his name?"

 

"Look, Detective Inspector Lestrade," the teenager sneers. "It doesn't matter where I got the sodding bears from. As long as I get 'em delivered to these people on the list, I did nothing wrong. Well, maybe I oversold the quality a bit. Brought a misleading sample. Everyone does that! It's called marketing!"

 

"Wrong,"

 

 

 

The crowds instantly fall silent as a familiar tall figure steps to the front. Greg does a double-take to make sure that he doesn't get the wrong person this time before stepping back and letting the consulting detective take the stage. About the goddamn time.

 

" _Bearlock Holmes!"_  Someone among the crowd shouts out. Sherlock pauses for a second and grimaces.

 

"If you'd have acquired the teddy bears fair and square, it would have been fine. You needed these original bears to mislead the victims, except that currently there are only twenty-seven of these are around. They were given for free to twenty-seven fans who contributed in a fundraising on a radio show featuring my partner, John Watson, seven months ago." Sherlock explains. "Naturally it was hard to find someone who would be willing to sell such precious, limited-edition memorabilia which is yet to hit the market. Even if there were, the price wouldn't have been so favourable to a high-school dropout such as yourself. So you decided to get creative, resorting to riskier methods."

 

The teenager seems mostly resigned now, letting one of the security guards drag him back down. At least he hadn't lied about the part where he respected Sherlock for his brilliance.

 

"You stole them. Probably broke in to their owners' flat and took them with you."

 

Curious, Greg can't hold himself back from asking. "How did you know that?"

 

"Among other things, some research," Sherlock replies. "Four of the people who received the teddy bear as a gift claimed to have it stolen from them. They are currently waiting outside by the registration counter. He is a clever one, he wouldn't have just broken in to their homes without plans. He followed them for weeks to learn about their schedule. They should be able to pick him out of a lineup."

 

"Come on, we'll take this to the station," Greg walks over to the stricken teenager and grabs him by his shoulder. He looks rather pitiful and small now that Sherlock has single-handedly turned the whole crowd against him. They should leave before things turn south, as they always do with angry mobs. "Hey, would you lend me a hand, mate? We need to get this young man out of this building unharmed." He asks the guards.

 

It isn't until he has called for backup, talked to the victims and got them all secured inside the cars, he remembers that acquiring the teddy bears had been Sherlock's main objective for coming to the place.

 

XXX

 

Probably sensing his urgency, Mrs. Hudson doesn't offer him a cuppa or engage him in idle chat when she opens the door. He heads straight upstairs and pushes the door open, knowing that Sherlock is there means that it will probably be unlocked.

 

The words die on the tip of his tongue when he steps in to the sitting room. Almost covering the entire floor area are the evidence he has been looking to retrieve. Or rather, bits and parts of them, torn beyond repair, with all of their stuffing out. Sherlock mentioned that there were only twenty-seven of them. All of them most probably end up here. He looks down at a particularly sad piece of ear near his feet.  _Bearlock Holmes_  is officially extinct, in the hand of its own namesake.

 

Sherlock is sitting on his armchair, fingers stapled together under his chin, seemingly unaware of his surroundings.

 

"Sherlock," Greg starts, stepping over a couple of mangled toys to approach the consulting detective. "That was the evidence. It's one thing to omit it, but this time you've stolen and destroyed the evidence. It's a  _serious_  offence."

 

If Sherlock heard it, he is doing a good job pretending not to. He hasn't even seen the other man blink for a good two minutes now. It's like only his body is present, while his soul is stranded somewhere else. It seems futile trying to engage Sherlock in a conversation now, but he just has to try.

 

"Why do you have to do this? Why did you collect the stuffed bears only to destroy them afterwards? And don't tell me you did it out of disdain. Sherlock Holmes doesn't do  _sentiment._ "

 

Sherlock leans forward on his chair. Greg considers it a personal victory to get him to move, but it doesn't help that he remains mute and unresponsive.

 

"Sherlock," he tries again, looking down at the mob of messy dark hair, holding back an urge to just shake him out of his silence. "I like to think that I've earned this. That I at least deserve some sort of explanation. If you won't talk to me as a detective inspector, you can talk to me as your friend." Surely Sherlock considers him a friend, does he? Or was it just the psychopathic criminal's wistful thought?

 

After waiting in silence for another ten minutes, Greg turns around and storms out of the flat.

 

XXX

 

"You should have told him,"

 

Sherlock doesn't need to turn his head to know that John is currently standing behind his armchair. He could feel it, the warm energy that marks his presence every time he is around even if he doesn't show himself. Even when he is quiet, John's mere presence can still be distracting, especially when he is out of Sherlock's line of sight. Sometimes he'd feel a flick of warmth near his face, covering his hand, on the back his neck, and he'd wonder if it is John. But why would John want that sort of intimacy with him? When he still had his body, John had always been careful about touching him, a gesture he doesn't necessarily return. He likes touching John, relishing in the small, seemingly irrelevant information the simple touch brings. He hasn't been able to delete anything that concerns John and it wasn't for the lack of trying.

 

"He would have understood. Might offer to help too."

 

Sherlock snorts. He has put a rather significant dent on the detective inspector's lifetime career once, called him up at dawn to drag him around on a wild goose chase and almost got him killed by a sniper twice. It was only proper to let Lestrade sit the rest of this one out. He isn't completely thoughtless.

 

After a few moments, he could feel the warm energy shift. John is walking away from him, probably out of frustration.

 

"John," he calls out. The subtlest hint of movement stops. "We are going to see Moriarty tonight."

 

If he tries hard enough, he could feel the ripples of anxiety coming from behind him, prickling the back of his neck.

 

"I have to stop by Molly's place before. Then we will see him. We'll end this, once and for all."

 

"Alright." John's voice always sounds like it is whispered right next to his ear, irrelevant to his current position. It makes it harder for him to pinpoint the other man's current mood, Mostly he sounded resigned, perhaps with a hint of agitation, knowing what is coming next. 

 

"If this doesn't work..."

 

"It will."

 

"You can't promise that, Sherlock. You are the most brilliant man I know and I trust you with my life, but I can't put that kind of burden on you."

 

Sherlock twists his body to look at the semi-transparent apparition behind him. John is wearing the same striped jumper, looking determined more than anything else. This isn't the sort of thrill he usually lives for, John should be entitled to a healthy amount of fear, but he chooses to forgo it and just goes straight to the bravery/idiocy. His John, his gallant, proud, wonderful John.

 

"Don't take me for the ordinary, John. If I told you that everything was going to be fine, it most probably would. Not because I said so, but because there are sufficient evidence to back up the  _allegation_ ," he tells him, making quoting gesture with his fingers. "I'm not going to say this again. It will work and we will be fine. So quit your fretting, it's distracting."

 

Sherlock turns back to his front, assuming his thinking position. John is quiet again, but it doesn't seem like he is upset. Sherlock could feel him drawing closer to him, then the he could feel a warm pool of energy pressed against his back, flowing to the side of neck. He raises his head, closing his eyes momentarily, assuring himself that the sensation is real.

 

"Sherlock, what I was trying to say is..."

 

"John..." He frowns, lowering his voice.

 

"No, listen, I need to tell you something," John assures him, his voice gentle yet determined. "Something I wanted to tell you three years ago. I spent so long regretting not being able to say it to you anymore. Regardless of tonight's outcome, I have to say it this time. Would you give me that?"

 

Sherlock is bewildered. Yes, of course, obviously. John is being dull and redundant by even having to ask. How could he be so incognizant after dealing so much damage on Sherlock's precious mind? If it were something John needs, he'd travel across the world to get it for him. If it hadn't existed yet, he'd invent it for him. It wouldn't even matter if this method fails to work. He won't stop trying until they come up with the one that does. No matter what happens, he won't allow John to give up.

 

"Sherlock?"

 

"Yes, John," he replies snappishly. "I don't know why you insist on asking when the answer is incontestably obvi--" John walks around the armchair and steps in front of him. "--ous."

 

Sherlock's eyes are wide as he looks up at his best friend, flatmate and partner, whose eyes are the most brilliant shade of blue. It's the clearest he has seen John's form since the first time he saw him like this; solid, like flesh and blood instead of some ghostly apparition. Sherlock could even make out the fine lines around his expressive eyes. He doesn't dare speak nor move, fearing his heart might leap out or just stop given more provocation.

 

John smiles as he slowly kneels down in front of him, both hands covering his own as he carefully folds his knees.

 

"Sherlock," John starts, looking vaguely sheepish. "They say that you don't know what you have until you lose it. At least to me, it was partly true."

 

"When I saw you on the rooftop that day, I knew I should be focusing on your words, trying to think of ways to change your mind but I was too weak. Instead, I thought of our times together. Many times I wanted to strangle you, so many obnoxious things that you did which made me question my decision to saddle up with someone so brilliant he looked borderline lunatic..." John lets out a familiar fond exasperated smile. "These bad things are a part of my memory too. They should be all there but all I could think of was... how you single-handedly fixed my leg, turned my worthless life around the way nobody has never been able to and didn't even realize how much it meant to me. You are brilliant that way. The day I shot the cabbie for you, you probably saved my life too. You pulled me out of a dark place, gave me a place I could call a home. Every time I see you now, I wonder how I survived all those days, in the world without you. I want us to be together for a bloody long time if just for annoying the hell out of each other. You'll probably have  _osteoarthritis_  and complain all the time about how incompetent your therapists are. I'll eventually have to wear glasses and be even slower with the phone and laptop you'll constantly shout at me from the sofa.  _God_ , wouldn't you be an insufferable old man."

 

Sherlock raises an eyebrow.

 

"I'm bad at this, aren't I?" John looks up at him, not quite apologetic.

 

"A bit not good, John," Sherlock clears his throat, a small bemused smile gracing his lips. "Still much better than those poems you wrote for your girlfriends, though."

 

"You are never going to let me live it down, aren't you?"

 

"Perhaps the rest of them, but not that particular limerick for the one with the teeth."

 

Sherlock starts to giggle, inciting louder snorting noises from the other man as he tries to hold his laughter back.

 

"Christ, you are awful," John gasps out in between of his bouts of giggles.

 

"It's fine, John. I was just getting sick of the sycophancy anyway."

 

"No, no, wait, Sherlock, I said it before and I'm going to say it again," John quickly amends, looking up at him once again with hints of mirth in his gentle eyes. "Sherlock Holmes, you are the  _best_  man I've ever known. Nothing in this world is more important to me than your steadfast companionship and I'm content with what we have. But if something should change between us..." He pauses, licking his lips. "As much as I want to, this isn't exactly the right time to speak of the future, so... I suppose we can go with the usual arrangement. You will go with it however you want, and I'll be two steps behind. Whatever you want it to be, Sherlock. You can take your time, knowing that I'll always be here for you."

 

John raises a hand to touch his cheek, his gaze intense. It feels so warm Sherlock abruptly releases the breath he doesn't remember holding. 

 

"Because if I'm going to rope Sherlock Holmes in a relationship, you deserve at least that much."

 

_A relationship?_ Sherlock narrows his eyes, opens his mouth, then closes it again. Is this really happening? Did he misread the meaning of John's words? What if it wasn't the sort of relationship he had in mind?

 

As if reading his mind, John's solemn look turns in to a bright, unabashed grin as he adds, "And because I love you very much, you great git."

 

XXX

 

Moriarty barely looks up as Sherlock enters the basement area. A single chair has been prepared for him in front of the high-security holding cell, normally reserved for dangerous killers with mental disorders. Behind the large glass window, Moriarty is sitting down on his bed, the only furniture in the all-white small room. As he shifts on his feet, he reminds himself to keep his expression neutral as he looks at Moriarty's left arm, propped in a sling. He has dealt another irreparable damage to John's already compromised body, might as well use it to his advantage. It is important to let Moriarty keep the impression that should he not cooperate, he wouldn't hesitate to hurt his physical body.

 

"HA!"

 

Sherlock freezes in shock as Moriarty suddenly flings himself to the glass window, generating a loud banging sound from the impact. Before he could think, his eyes immediately fall on John's left shoulder from which a dark stain of red starts to pool, then up at his best friend's contorted manic grin, face pressed against the glass.

 

"Glad to see that you still care. I was beginning to think that you had forgotten about me, considering how you've left me alone here for days with nothing to stimulate my brain," drawls the consulting criminal calmly as he detaches himself from the glass window, apparently pleased with his response. "Just so you know, I am ambidextrous. I could tooootally live with just one arm."

 

Sherlock glares at him, clenching his jaw.

 

"So don't test me," Moriarty finishes with a flourish before turning around to sit back down on the bed. 

 

Biting back a retort, Sherlock turns around and settles on his seat with a swish of coat, crossing his legs and folding his arms petulantly.

 

Moriarty smirks. "So tell me, Sherlock. Aren't you a man of science? How did it feel travelling across the world researching such case? I'm surprised you haven't hurt your eyes from rolling them one too many times."

 

"That indeed was a most arduous ordeal," Sherlock replies pleasantly as he unravels a small package from inside his coat. "Fortunately I had had the opportunity to watch your goons at work for two years. It warmed me up nicely for even more absurdity."

 

Moriarty leans back, angling his neck to the side awkwardly as Sherlock efficiently unwraps the package, revealing the Sherlock Holmes teddy bear. The reaction is there though subtle. Moriarty is getting anxious, Sherlock is only too pleased to note.

 

"Aren't you pleased to have it back? I thought it was important to you."

 

"I suppose," Moriarty shrugs, faking indifference.

 

"I hope it wasn't so much of a shock. After all, isn't that what you left the crumbs for? For letting me know?" Sherlock tilts his head to the side, frowning. "Really, Jim? Twenty-seven stuffed bears," he rolls the last word. "Using such an odd number, that's just begging for attention."

 

Moriarty looks away, making hissing sounds with a teethy grimace. "Could have been my birthday."

 

Smirking, Sherlock takes off his glove, rubbing the contours of his left hand with his fingertips.

 

"Ah, you've found out, finally," Moriarty abruptly stands up, making loud, exaggerated disappointed sigh. "And it took you... five whole days."

 

"Let's say you have twenty-seven pieces of something with utmost importance," Sherlock shifts on his seat, looking down at his clenched left hand. "You need them kept, you need them spread around, you don't need to know who keeps them but you need to know that they would definitely keep it or at least pass them over to someone else who would. What would you do?"

 

Moriarty stays silent, eyes narrowed. Sherlock holds the stuffed bear loosely in one hand while his other hand fishes out a folding knife he has been concealing under his sleeve.

 

"Have them repackaged in something that people would want. Something that would be cherished. A limited-edition teddy bear whose production plan abruptly halted due to some unknown legal circumstances. Not a single more could be sold, except for the twenty-seven which you've cleverly spread among the fans whom you know would definitely hold on to them, wouldn't purposely damage them, wouldn't have the heart to do this," He holds the bear by its head as he stabs its back, dragging the knife down to tear the surface.

 

"Careful," Moriarty frowns disapprovingly at the deliberate act of savagery.

 

Sherlock shoves one hand through the tear and sift through its fluffy stuffing roughly, before eventually pulling out his hand, producing a small piece of bone from inside.

 

"You must have thought yourself as someone special, an  _extraordinary_ ," Sherlock narrows his eyes as he holds the bones carefully between his gloved forefinger and thumb. "Strip your skin and muscles, and this is what's left of you. An ordinary looking  _distal phalanx._ "

 

Moriarty lowers his head, flashing him a shifty grin. "Impressively done. I must concur you've won the  _first_  scavenger game."

 

"Oh please," Sherlock looks away and starts to laugh, enclosing the bone in his hand. "You are still going to pretend that there's more to this mind-numbingly tedious game? That there are still more pieces that I have to collect to get to the end? Wouldn't it be a bit difficult to fit that big skull of yours inside a teddy bear?"

 

"You are never a man of worldly possessions, aren't you, Jim? Of course the object that would tie you to the living world wouldn't be something as dull as a music box, or a skull tie-pin. We're alike that way. Of course it would have been the body," Sherlock lowers his head, throwing the consulting criminal a calculating look. Moriarty still isn't showing the strong reactions he has been hoping to stimulate, but Sherlock could see the craze forming in his eyes. John's eyes. They always seem a shade too dark on Moriarty,

 

"The most probable way to make sure that nobody would ever find the rest of your remains would be to destroy them yourself." Sherlock braces himself as Moriarty starts to produce some faint growling noises. Like a wild animal. "Wouldn't you love to have me scurry around trying to find something that you know no longer exists. Too bad that's not going to happen. Surely you didn't expect such an obvious trickery to work, did you?"

 

Moriarty raises a hand to his forehead, pinching it so hard it couldn't possibly not hurt.

 

"You said you'd burn the heart out of me. Guess who plays with fire, shall get burn in the end. Should have listened to your mummy _._ "

 

"I'll let you in on a secret," Sherlock tosses the useless doll off his lap, stands up, and steps close to the glass window until he is standing right across the other man. "You were right. I travelled the world to find a way to make you leave John's body. After six months I returned to London, even more baffled, with so many methods and religious practices that were claimed to work, and no case to experiment them on."

 

"Then you pulled the foolish stunt of stealing your own body and hiding pieces of your left hand inside stuffed animals, enabling me to narrow them down significantly. Suddenly I wasn't so confused anymore." 

 

"Five hundred and eighty four methods from around the world I've learned to make you leave John's body."

 

It is there. Just one more push. 

 

"And you have  _so_  graciously shown me the one that would work."

 

"You, are a  _DISAPPONTMENT!_ " the consulting criminal spits out, loud and explosive, accentuated by a slam of hand on the glass window. "Took you long enough to get this far! You are getting slower, dimmer, not to interesting anymore! I was  _DONE_  with you! Johnny-boy was  _DONE_  with you!"

 

Sherlock presses his lips together tightly, preparing himself for the next part.

 

"Getting less and less impressed here, Sherlock," short of breath, Moriarty starts to scratch the glass with his nails. Sherlock only barely manages not to wince as one of them breaks and starts to bleed. Moriarty keeps scratching like he doesn't feel anything.

 

"Stop it," it starts out as a murmur. This is the moment he has been waiting for but his whole system just keeps screaming for him to stop this whole folly. That must hurt. John would have been hurt. It's John's body, Moriarty has no right to--

 

"You are useless, a failure! Otherwise you would have gotten him back  _months_  ago. Johnny-boy shouldn't have had to live through it all," Scratch scratch scratch scratch scratchscratch _SCRATCHSCRATCHSCRATCH_

 

"STOP IT!"

 

"You are weak, Sherlock. You think you've known it all. You were too prideful to accept the  _fact_  that there are some things, unfathomable by your  _precious_  science,"  _SCRATCHSCRATCHSCRATCH_

 

Sherlock runs towards the door, trying to work the panel to get it to open. It is to no avail. Mycroft appears to have anticipated this event and changed the passkey.

 

"Even now you still have doubts, I can see it! That's why you brought it here, isn't it? You thought it would jolt Johnny-boy out of his psychosis! How  _adorable_!"  _SCRATCHSCRATCHSCRATCHSCRATCHSCRATCH_

 

"Well guess what, Sherlock, I," SCRATCH. "Am,"  _SCRATCH_. " _Real_." A slam of hand. Sherlock feels like he has been jolted out of a nightmare, only to awaken in another one. 

 

"You..." he wheezes out, brushing his mouth with the back of his hand. Moriarty is in the process of taking off his sling. " _Don't_..."

 

A group of men in black suit storm in to the room.

 

"Mister Holmes! The sleeping gas!" One of them shouts at him.

 

"No!" Sherlock raises a hand, halting their steps. "He can't sleep, not yet."

 

It takes Sherlock's entire willpower to ignore his whole surroundings and just focuses on getting the tobacco pipe out of his coat pocket. His hands are shaking. Moriarty starts laughing as he rips his shirt open and tears the carefully wrapped bandages off. The bullet wound is bleeding again.

 

"YOU ARE NOT GETTING RID OF ME SHERLOCK! I'M NEVER LEAVING!"

 

Focus. Think. Ignore. Sherlock chants inside his head as he drops the bone inside the tobacco pipe. The smell of the accelerant he planted inside the pipe makes him feel sick in the stomach. Despite his earlier resolution, he can't get rid of the notion that it is the end. Either this plan works or John will die with Moriarty. If it ever came to that, he would die with John. He isn't letting John alone ever again. Not going to leave him ever again. 

 

"John, please," he doesn't realize he has called out the name until after Moriarty pauses his frenzy to stare at him. He uses the very limited timeframe to drop a pinch of salt with the bone, causing Moriarty to make an unnatural jerking movements with his whole body. It is one of the most disturbing things Sherlock has ever seen, like a broken  _marionette_.

 

" _SheERLoOCk_ ," Moriarty reaches out to him, his fingers drenched with blood from his own wounds. "I WiLL liVe fORevEr."

 

With one decisive flick of thumb, Sherlock finally manages to lit the portable lighter in his hand. 

 

"Bugger off, Jim," he dips the fire in to the pipe. "You are already dead."

 

XXX

  
John stirs awake and feels like he is a hundred and twenty year old.

 

"John?" A warm hand is pressed against his arm. A familiar voice of someone he will soon punch on the nose.

 

"Oh God, Sherlock," he moans out, opening his eyes slowly only to find that the room is unforgivingly bright. "Water--"

 

Soon, he could feel a paper cup against his dry lips. He takes in the water greedily, emptying the cup within seconds.

 

"John," Sherlock's voice is gentle, relieved. "How are you feeling?"

 

John sighs loudly, blinking a few times to get himself used to the light. "You hate it when I cuss," he says.

 

Sherlock doesn't respond but John can feel his bafflement.

 

"My point is," he gasps out another breath, finally managing to keep his eyes open long enough to focus on the face in front of him. The curly dark hair, the sharp eyes, the cheekbones, the pouty lips. It makes him want to laugh. "If you don't want me to cuss, you shouldn't ask me to explain how I bloody feel, Sherlock."

 

Sherlock lets out a small chuckle. His fingers brushes rhythmically against the sensitive skin inside his elbow. It feels surprisingly nice, if not slightly out of character for the consulting detective to comfort him this way. Takes his mind of various dull aches which feel like they were spread uniformly across his whole body.

 

"You will be fine," Sherlock informs him, smiling pleasantly. "It's over, John. We can finally go home."

 

"You meant, you could finally go home," John snorts. "In case you haven't noticed, I've been home for some time already, Sherlock."

 

"Yes," Sherlock replies easily, leaning closer to brush his hand against his bandaged shoulder. "I will go home, John. With you."

 

John couldn't help a smile even though he knows he should still be upset now. He wants to, because Sherlock is  _alive_. He is still the same manipulative bastard who lied to him and everyone he knew, but now he is back. Alive and well.

 

"What happened?" He crunches his neck to look down at his hands. They both seem to be in pretty bad shape.

 

"I'll tell you later, right now you have to rest," Sherlock urges him to lay back. "Is there something you'd like to eat? Perhaps some tea? Mrs. Hudson stopped by earlier with some biscuits but I'd rather you eat something more substantial--"

 

"Look, Sherlock, if we're going to talk about it, I'd rather we just get it over with quickly."

 

The consulting detective turns to him slowly, eyes narrowed. "What is there to talk about?"

 

John glares at him. "I don't know. Perhaps the reason why you pretended to be dead for more than two years?"

 

"But, John," Sherlock's brows crease. "We have talked about it when--" He suddenly pauses, eyes wide with realization. 

 

"Tell me, John. What is the last thing you remember?"

 

John closes his eyes, sifting through blurry snapshots and cropped scenes. It is a jumbled mess inside his head. He feels like he has slept for months. He doesn't know which are real memories and which are dreams. He can't even remember how he has come to bear these wounds. He opens his eyes again, suddenly gripped by fear. What has happened? What has he done? Where is he?  _What day is it?_

 

"Oh God," he bites his lower lip, pressing a palm against his eyes. He can feel it coming. The panic attack. "Oh God, Sherlock."

 

"John," Sherlock is quick to grab his hand, anchoring him down. "It's okay, John. You will remember. Give it some time."

 

"Is this real? Is it just a dream?" He whimpers, clutching on his supposedly dead flatmate rather pathetically. "Am I alive? Are you?"

 

"Don't be dull, John. Obviously we both are," Sherlock circles an arm around his frame. He could hear his thrumming heartbeat, his shortened breaths. "You are just confused. It will be fine."

 

"You can't leave again, Sherlock," he closes his eyes, suddenly feeling tired and groggy. "Or I'll fucking chin you."

 

"Real convincing, John."

 

"No, I'm serious. Dead serious." He is. He is. Never been so damned sure in his life. He'd even chain the goddamned man to his own bed if that's what it takes. "When you do, you'll take me with you. Promise me."

 

Sherlock remains quiet as his heartbeat picks up pace.

 

"Sherlock," his eyes feel heavy. His brain is threatening to shut down. But he can't sleep now. Sherlock hasn't answered. " _Sherlock_ , promise me."

 

In the end, Sherlock does answer, right before he is claimed by complete darkness.

 

John can't remember what the answer is.

 

XXX

 

A man, beaten to death with an unidentified blunt object in his own bed, and Greg can't stop grinning. The two fools who are currently arguing with Anderson behind the police line are rubbing off on him.

 

"Oi! This way!" he calls out, waving a gloved hand. John looks up at him, nudging Sherlock to get past the bloody line and inside the crime scene already.

 

"Hi, Greg," John greets as Sherlock starts spouting insults at his team, and then his shirt, as an afterthought.

 

"Good to see you, John," he grins, pointedly ignoring consulting detective. "You look jolly good. Fit enough for the crime scene already?"

 

"Yeah, I've been better these days, thank God," John brings a hand up to his bad shoulder, self-conscious. "Getting quite sick of the daytime telly. And getting stuck inside the flat with someone who claims to have no interest whatsoever in it, yet he keeps shouting--"

 

"John, if you're going to insist on engaging in something as tedious as a small talk  _every time_  we see someone you know, wasting my time and delaying justice for the family of the victim--"

 

"For the love of--" John turns to the petulant detective, arms crossed indignantly. "You were the one who  _'engaged_ ' Anderson earlier outside. Also saying good morning doesn't count as a small talk. It's common courtesy!"

 

"It's more than just that, John! Everyone we meet just keeps asking about how you are! How do you stand it? Answering to the obvious, same question, repeated over and over and over again--"

 

"Sherlock," John lowers his voice. "If you are going to act like a child, go on to your precious crime scene. I'll catch up later."

 

"Fine!" Sherlock waves his hands wildly above his head, throwing Greg a fleeting 'I thought you were my friend but how could you let this happen to me?' look before stomping inside the bedroom, ignoring his new sergeant's sputters about his lack of proper outfit.

 

"Greg,"

 

When Greg turns back to the doctor, he could see the swift change of expression in his face. Gone are the calm and easy-going vibes he was emanating earlier. This John looks worn, worried, frustrated.

 

"You have to tell me what happened," John tells him. "Please, Greg. I need to know."

 

"John..." Greg frowns. Sherlock has told him about John's 'temporary' brain trauma. He can't seem to remember anything past around the time when Moriarty has taken over his body. He remembers about feeling distraught after being haunted by Sherlock's ghost, but has seemed to dismiss it as a nightmare, as Sherlock obviously is still alive and well. The memories stored in the body and in the soul seem to have clashed, causing severe disorientation and inability to distinguish a dream from the reality, Sherlock has told him a few weeks ago during one of his visits. It sounded pretty serious, but he took comfort in Sherlock's patient, dedicated care. The consulting detective had been refusing to come to the crime scenes for almost three months, only solving the cases from the comfort of his sitting room, probably with John sitting next to him thinking that they were watching a movie together.

 

"Look, it isn't that I don't want to tell you," Greg whispers, looking at his back to make sure that Sherlock is a good feet away. The man's hearing is almost supernatural. "Sherlock doesn't think you're ready to know the whole story. It is going to sound absurd, not something you'll take at face value. It might confuse you even more, and I agree with him, John. You're not ready."

 

John looks away, sighing heavily. What Greg has just told him, he must have understood. But John has never been the kind of person who could sit still while the whole world seems to insist on protecting him. Not knowing must have driven him up the wall each day.

 

"Sherlock has been acting strange," he explains, clenching and unclenching his left hand restlessly. "Sometimes when he thinks I'm not looking, he'll have this... sad look in his face. He'd pretend he was staring down the microscope for hours, but I could tell that he was thinking about something else."

 

"John, I'm sorry to tell you this, but as of now, my hands are tied. There's nothing that I can do for you," Greg tells him firmly. "You need to trust Sherlock, okay? He has been doing everything he can to help you recover. When you're ready, he'll be the first to know."

 

It must have been tough to swallow, but in the end John does it anyway, as he nods and mumbles a thanks before walking towards the crime scene. From where Greg stands, even his back looks dejected. What lies ahead wouldn't be an easy ordeal for both of them but sod that, they are Sherlock and John. They have survived much worse, and at this point Greg couldn't think of anything that would drive them apart.

 

Greg fishes out his new phone (Sherlock wouldn't take it back, insisting that Greg uses it instead of his old 'marginally more useful than a brick of stone' phone) and launches the twitter app. Scrolling up to browse the new posts, he notes that Molly has updated her profile picture, which was once Toby's closed up face now replaced with her own picture hugging a  _Bearlock Holmes_ (now one of many after the production resumes a month ago).

 

_#ibelieveinsherlockholmes_ , he types down. It has been a national trending topic since the fan convention incident. The press has yet to discover about John's return, but the man has been out of the flat for at least an hour now. He expects more tv station vans to be pile up around the premise in less than fifteen minutes. 

 

Raising an eyebrow at his own unfinished post, he hits the delete button and starts anew.

 

_#ibelieveinsherlockandjohn_

 

Tweet sent.

 

 

Later that night, Greg will find it _retweeted_ over a thousand times.

 

XXX

 

THE END

 

 

Epilogue _- Hour of the Dragon_

 

The first day back in the field and John feels useless already. It is rather hard to put on the blue overalls with his bad arm refusing to cooperate. Greg's new sergeant, a pleasant young man, seems to be repeatedly biting back an offer to help. John ignores him, just focusing on getting in the damned outfit, silently berating himself for being such a stickler. It's just that there are a lot of new faces in the force and he wants to make a good first impression.

 

"This way, Doctor Watson," the sergeant throws him a small smile as he leads the way to the bedroom. If the stench were any indication, the corpse is yet to be removed from the premise.

 

John stops himself at the doorway, wondering why these small things which never bothered him before seem to intensify today. He needs to pull himself together. He is a doctor, an army doctor. Whatever is waiting for him on the other side of the door can't possibly be worse than all the things he has seen in the battlefield.

 

"Are you okay, Doctor Watson?" asks the sergeant, peering at him from inside the room.

 

"It's fine," he tells him, mustering a tight smile. From the small crack, he could see Sherlock leaning down to inspect the body. Very soon he will start talking to John, whether he is present or not. John would rather be there to listen to him.

 

"John!" Sherlock's voice. That would be his cue.

 

John takes a deep breath and narrowly stopping his stomach from heaving its contents out. He must have been sicker than he previously thought. Either way, he has to come in and tell Sherlock.

 

"Doctor Watson, I don't think you look well, you should probably--"

 

"Yes, I know," he cuts, rather snappishly. "Just--let me see Sherlock for a moment."

 

The young sergeant throws him one last doubtful look before stepping out of his way. John straightens his back and steps inside, and looks up to find the whole room has suddenly gone dark.

 

The few seconds in which he has to wait in complete darkness while his eyes adjust is one of the longest moment in his life. He wants to run, wants to scream, but his whole body is paralyzed. When he tries to speak, he couldn't feel his tongue.

 

_This is a nightmare,_ his mind helpfully supplies as his eyes move around uselessly. It is still too dark for him to distinguish his surroundings. He could hear a low groaning sound from a distance. A sob, a muffled yelp, and someone shushing.

 

Out on the street, a car passes by, illuminating some lights in to the room for a split second, in which John wishes it hadn't passed by at all. He could see the outline of the room. It's still the same room he stepped in to earlier, except that the person on the bed is definitely still alive, _barely_. Another person is crouching over him, holding up something which resembles a bat over his head. A moment later, in the darkness, John listens quietly as someone is beaten to death.

 

_God,_ he can feel his whole body trembling. Closing his eyes isn't enough, he can still hear the noises; the pounding, the begging, the broken cries. Just how much longer is it going to last?

 

After what seems like hours, another car passes by. The person crouching on the bed is gone, but he could still hear him move around the room.

 

_I will be next_.

 

_When he finds me, I'll be dead._

 

With the realization, John forces his body to move. He stumbles face-first on to the carpet, head hitting the bed rather hard. He freezes. It was so loud, the assailant must have heard it. Relying on his instinct, he crouches down and squeezes in the narrow space between the bed and the floor.

 

_It will be fine_ , he tells himself. _He can't see me._

 

Just when he thinks he can't hear the person's shuffling feet anymore, the lamps inside the room are turned on. Then he realizes that he has been heard. The man is now looking for him, that's why he needs the lights.

 

From where he is, he could be attacked from any directions and wouldn't be able to fight back.

 

If this was a dream, he needs to wake up.

 

_Sherlock_ , he thinks. Sherlock would be able to wake him up.

 

"SHERLOCK!" he screams out, uncaring of the other person inside the room anymore. "SHERLOCK YOU'VE GOT TO GET ME OUT!"

 

From the corner of his eyes, he could see a pair of feet approaching his hiding place.

 

"PLEASE, SHERLOCK!"

 

They're moving fast. Soon he'll be here, the cold-blooded murderer.

 

"SHERLOCK!"

 

The murderer is now standing right above him.

 

" _SHERLOCK_!!!"

 

XXX

 

For a moment John feels like he has just returned from a trip to the eye of a storm. His head hurts and his ears ring. His eyes are wide open and he can see Sherlock's concerned face in front of him, but when he tries to focus his vision on him, the whole room spins.

 

"Sherlock," he closes his eyes, raising a hand to the consulting detective's general direction. He needs the contact, needs to be anchored, needs it _now_.

 

"John, it's okay, I'm here," Sherlock's voice soothes him. "Lestrade is clearing the way for us to get to the hospital."

 

 

John frowns, even when he clamps his eyes shut, he could still feel the room spin around him, painful and debilitating.

 

"Sherlock, where are we?"

 

"At the crime scene, do you remember coming here?"

 

"I--I just--" John could hear himself moaning in agony. "I saw the killer-- he--"

 

"Did someone just attack you?"

 

"No! I saw the one who killed--" he searches his memory for the name of the victim and comes up empty. "The man in the bed--I saw him--bludgeoned to death--"

 

After a few seconds the pain finally dissipates. John forces his eyes open, looking straight at the concerned grey eyes.

 

"You've got the believe me, Sherlock, I saw him! I saw the killer just now!"

 

"Calm down, John. You can tell me later, right now you have to--"

 

"I saw him, _you've got to believe me_!"

 

Sherlock shoots him another distressed look before leaning down to whisper in his ear. "I do, John. You know I always do." His breath is hot and his tone is gentle. Sherlock is actually making a real effort to be comforting John fears what he is going to see in the mirror. He must have looked dreadfully pathetic. "First I'm going to get you to the hospital. Then we'll talk. In private."

 

At that point John realizes that they are currently surrounded by dozens of officers; the new faces he was determined to impress upon arriving. Now they are all looking at him with various degree of pity in their eyes.

 

"Lestrade is here, can you stand?"

 

As John lets himself getting dragged away, his eyes fall on a figure standing motionless at the corner of the room with his back facing him. Just before the door closes, the figure turns around, revealing his crushed nose and multiple bruises across his face.

 

"John," he could hear Sherlock's voice, but it sounds very far away. "John, are you okay?"

 

John turns to him and replies earnestly, "No, Sherlock." He takes another glance at the closed door behind them, feeling the shiver on the back of his neck.

 

"I'm not okay."

 

XXX

 


End file.
